


Garak and The Scent of Yullick Blossoms

by Taava Mulcahy (lknox)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bashir POV, Cardassian Culture, Cardassian Genetics, Civilian Life on DS9, F/M, Garak POV, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 94,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lknox/pseuds/Taava%20Mulcahy
Summary: Part of Cardassia's past has been erased from the official history.  Why is Garak one of the few people alive who knows the truth?  What part did his family play in that forgotten history?  And what terrible choice was he once forced to make?  When a human woman falls in love with Elim Garak, she learns darker secrets than she ever wanted to know.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Julian Bashir, Elim Garak & Tain, Elim Garak & Ulani Belor, Elim Garak/Original Female Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I like Garak/Bashir, just wanted to try something different. This timeline formed late in the fourth season. The Dominion has not invaded the Alpha Quadrant. The Detapa Council is still in power on Cardassia. And this is . . . an origin story.

He was unpacking some sweaters and trying not to think about Felgar, when a young human woman walked in.

Not a resident of the station. Off the passenger ship that just docked then.

Light blue pants and a matching blouse, both a size too large for her. A recent weight loss? Dull brown hair in a long braid, pale skin, no cosmetics and dark circles under her eyes.

"Ah! Good afternoon! And how may I serve you today?"

"I want to buy an evening dress: conservative in style, but in some luxurious fabric."

Not what he'd expected, but admirably direct. "I'm afraid I don't have anything like that in stock. I would be happy to create something for you." He pointed, "If you'll step into the scanning alcove we can take the preliminary measurements."

She thought about it, then she walked over and scanned her measurements into the shop computer.

"When will it be ready? I am in a hurry."

"If I postpone all my _other_ customers' work, I can finish an off-the-rack dress in about an hour."

"Then I'll be back in one hour." She started to walk out.

If that wasn't real arrogance it was a good imitation. He smiled; he just couldn't help it. "Will you at least tell me what _color_ you want?"

"Something suitable for a redhead. I will trust your professional judgment."

*

She walked back up the small flight of stairs to the station’s retail concourse. Shops on either side, hanging signage, brightly lit—depressingly prosaic for a station that guarded a wormhole to the other side of the galaxy.

She found a salon, had the Bajoran owner do her makeup, cut her hair shoulder-length and color it a dark auburn. She bought a black purse and shoes at a small accessory store. Then she found another small shop on the upper level, made a final purchase and returned to the clothier.

The Cardassian had a dress ready for her. It was a deep aubergine, with a floor-length skirt, a natural waist and short butterfly sleeves. It was elegant in its simplicity and beautifully sewn. She took it into a dressing room, changed her clothes and studied her reflection in the mirror.

Then she stepped back out and nodded at the tailor. "It's fine as it is." He handed her a padd. She pressed her thumb, handed it back and headed for the door.

" _Madam_ , you've left your other clothes."

She ignored him and walked out.

*

It looked like a large room, with only a few customers in this dead time between lunch and happy hour. One Bolian enlisted woman at the long bar. A couple of Lissepian businessmen at one of the small tables. No one at the dabo tables but a couple of bored looking dabo girls. She walked in and beckoned a passing waiter, a Ferengi.

"Bring the proprietor to me."

He started to say something.

"Now."

He shrugged, went to the bar and spoke to a much more elaborately dressed Ferengi.

The second man walked over to her, frowning. "Madam, if you have some complaint—"

"I want a bottle of _real_ champagne and I want to be left alone. I will be happy to pay triple your usual cover charge— _if_ no one bothers me."

Suddenly much more cheerful, he led her up a circular staircase to the roped-off mezzanine and seated her at the very back. Then he brought a bottle and a champagne flute; accepted payment for the wine, filled the glass and left.

She looked out at the second level of the concourse. A colorful mix of humans and aliens passed by, intent on their shopping. None of them glanced into the dimly lit bar.

She lifted the glass in a silent toast, took a sip and set it down. She reached into her bag and pulled out the small dagger she'd bought at the Andorian cutlery shop. She pressed the palm of her left hand against the edge of the table, took a breath—and slashed the dagger down the inside of her wrist.

The pain was excruciating. She clenched her teeth, somehow kept herself from screaming. Then she switched the knife to her bloody left hand and cut her right wrist too.

*

That young woman was in trouble. The look in her eyes, the strangely muted responses—he _knew_ that reaction. But he just couldn't let himself be distracted now. Not with his people on Cardassia this close to a breakthrough.

He folded another sweater and placed it on the display table.

She'd walked in as such a drab creature and—with his help—she'd walked back out as a reasonably attractive human female. But she had _still_ seemed so oddly . . . _disconnected_.

_No! This time I will mind my own business. This time I absolutely will not get involved._

_*_

Bashir brushed his hand through Berkuta's pixie-short brown hair and plucked out the last barb.

"Ouch!"

The other members of the Arboretum Garden Club flinched in sympathy. The only Betazoid member, Ensign Vardell, clenched his fists and took a reflexive step back on the lawn.

Nandie Patel shot a guilty look at the petunias and pottery shards under the roped-off tree. "I should have translated the name before she tried to hang flower pots in it."

"Well, yes, 'Spiny Whip Tree' _is_ kind of a giveaway." Then he relented and gave Keiko's young assistant a reassuring smile. "The lieutenant will be fine, Miss Patel."

" _Attention_ : _Code Blue_. _Dr. Bashir to the Infirmary. Code Blue_."

He tapped his combadge, "Ops, this is Bashir. Beam me to the infirmary."

*

A voice: "She's conscious now. Thanks for staying late, Jabara. Go get some rest."

Someone was looking down at her. He had kind eyes . . . and a distinct tea-and-crumpets accent.

She looked around. She was lying on a biobed and wearing ugly purple pajamas. This must be the infirmary on the space station. Which meant she'd failed.

"Everything will be all right. You're in the infirmary on Deep Space Nine. I'm Dr. Julian Bashir. Can you tell me your name?"

Her mouth was dry; she wet her lips. "My name is Ruth Devlin. What happened?"

"You were . . . hurt. But Garak found you before hemorrhagic shock set in. I've replaced most of the lost blood volume and given you an injection of erythropoietin."

"Garak?" The name meant nothing to her.

"A friend of mine. The clothing shop?"

"The Cardassian. I remember now."

"He was worried, so he went looking for you." He smiled, "I understand he had to threaten Quark with grave bodily harm before he'd let him near you. Then they found you injured and unconscious, so they just carried you over here."

"Please spare me the euphemisms. I wasn't 'injured.' I tried to kill myself." She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and held very still until the room stopped spinning. But when she started to stand, the doctor put his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm afraid we don't have a counselor right now. But I'm here if you'd like to talk to someone."

"And tell you why I tried to kill myself? I won't do that. Am I under arrest? If not, I'm leaving."

A soft voice spoke from the doorway. "My dear, the good doctor has no authority to hold you here."

It was the Cardassian, the tailor—looking remarkably calm for a man with that many blood stains on his tunic. Her blood, she realized.

"This is a _Bajoran_ station, as I am so frequently reminded. And attempted suicide may be considered a moral failure, but it is not a crime. You are perfectly free to leave the infirmary 'against medical advice.'"

"But I am _trying_ to help her; she does need to talk to someone."

"I agree. She needs to talk to me."

"You don't even know her. And you don't know human psychology."

"Don't I, Doctor?" He smiled: a strange enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach his chill blue eyes.

This was ridiculous. She'd become a pawn in some ongoing argument. She slipped off the biobed. "Yes, Mr. Garak, I will talk to you."

"I will look after her, Julian. I promise."

The doctor threw up his hands, went to a clinical replicator on the back wall and returned with a blue lab coat and a pair of hospital booties. She put them on and started to walk out with the tailor.

"I will need to call a competency hearing, per Starfleet regs."

"It is quite late now, Doctor. Surely you can do that tomorrow."

"Garak . . . what _can_ you say to her that I can't?"

The Cardassian smiled again: this time a surprisingly boyish smile that lit up his eyes and fairly brimmed over with mischief, "Why, Doctor, I am going to tell her— _a secret_."

*

They were alone in the replimat, the concourse lighting dimmed now for the station's night cycle. She could feel the despair rushing back, the terrible weariness. Well, she'd hear him out—then find some way to try again.

The tailor brought her a blue mug that reeked of spearmint, sat down, pulled her dagger out of a jacket pocket and placed it on the table. "I do apologize for interrupting your plans today. I had no right to do that."

"Then why did you?" She picked up the dagger and dropped it into the pocket of her lab coat.

"Because you lacked one vital piece of information." He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

" _This is not a normal place. This is a place where people change._ "

"I . . . don't understand."

"In your planet's history there is something called 'The Frontier.' More an idea than a place: the idea of going somewhere _new_ , where you cast off your old life and start over. That is what happens here. People change, develop, often in odd and unexpected ways."

"This is all a bit too fanciful for me." She picked up the mug and took a sip.

"Oh, but I have a practical proposal for you. Why don't we just _say_ Ruth is dead and start over?"

"Excuse me?" She set the mug back down.

"I refer, of course, to the 'Ruth Devlin' who walked _into_ my shop. But the woman who walked _out_ was someone new—and she has some interesting attributes. She's goal-oriented. She's amazingly strong willed. And she has an inimitable sense of— _style._ "

She fought down a smile. "And those are 'attributes' you approve of?"

"They most certainly are."

"But she needs work. Let me guess: _you_ are the man to direct this transformation."

"My dear, you can actually _be_ the woman you saw in my fitting room mirror." He smiled, "Why not give it a try? If you don't like it, you can always kill yourself later."

"And what, precisely, do you get out of this?"

He sighed. "I need something to occupy my leisure hours. I need a hobby."

"I'm unhappy enough to attempt suicide and you want to keep me alive just to amuse yourself?"

"Miss Devlin, I never said I was a nice person." He looked into her eyes, "Are you?"

She felt a sudden chill. "No. I am not a nice person at all."

"Then we will make a _wonderful_ team!"

He gave a stretch and stood up, "But right now we both need some sleep. We'll just run over to Transient Lodging and get you a room for the night; you can lease some larger quarters tomorrow." She got up too. They left the replimat and started down the concourse.

"And I'll have your ship offload your luggage. You'll need _something_ to wear until I get a start on your new wardrobe."

She froze in her tracks. "Stop right there. I haven't agreed to anything. And what if I still want to kill myself?"

"You won't attempt suicide again; I knew it the moment you picked up the mug. When you were thirsty—you took a drink. Your survival instinct has cut back in." He said it with absolute assurance.

"Who _are_ you?"

He gave a self-deprecating shrug, "Me? I'm just a tailor. Just plain, simple, Garak."

"That's a lie. I don't know who you really are, but that's a lie." Nevertheless, she continued down the concourse with him.

*

_Grimy, steel-framed windows let in just enough daylight to let her see the automated leaching tanks, and the network of pipes overhead. She stopped behind one tank and listened carefully. Footsteps on the hard refinery flooring. The pop of a champagne cork. Voices . . . Michael and Miss Pym. And there was some other sound, in the background—grinding, mechanical and relentless._

Ruth woke in the armchair where she'd been sitting and thinking for most of the night. Kneading the back of her neck, she looked at the chronometer on the bedside table: 07:05. Had she had the dream again? For the first time in weeks . . . she couldn't remember.

The door chime sounded. She threw the lab coat back on and went to answer it. It was a Bajoran teenager in a blue uniform with an insignia of two crossed keys on the collar. He was holding her suitcase and two shopping bags.

"Station Services. Are you Miss Ruth?"

"Miss Devlin, actually."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I always forget. The Cardassian asked me to bring you this stuff." He set the suitcase and the bags on the floor and walked away.

She brought them in and put them on the bed. One bag held the clothing and cosmetics she'd left in the dressing room. In the other she found an isolinear rod, a paper envelope and a large bundle wrapped in durofilm. She opened the envelope. Yes, real notepaper too.

_Miss Devlin: Constable Odo will request your presence in his office at 09:00. Your competency panel will consist of him, the doctor and the commander of the station. I'm enclosing brief profiles of each of them. And I would be honored if you'd join me for breakfast in the replimat at 09:15._

Really? It would take her only fifteen minutes to talk them out of having her committed? Unlikely, but she did find his faith in her oddly charming.

She unwrapped the bundle. Pants and an embroidered tunic in a silky, bronze colored material, and a pair of oxblood brown heels. Apparently he was already hard at work on the new wardrobe.

Just start over? He made it sound so simple. But becoming someone new would take time and conscious effort. And how would she know when she actually was some new person? Maybe she'd never know for sure. Yet it was obvious that she'd decided to go along with this.

Very well then, who was this new woman? What were her parameters?

A woman who never fell in love. A woman who never ran away. A woman without regrets.

She picked up the rod and crossed the room to the computer terminal. The "message waiting" light was flashing. She logged in, and a strangely . . . _unfinished_ individual appeared on the screen.

"Miss Devlin, I am Station Chief of Security Odo. Please report to the security office at zero nine hundred hours." The screen went black again. Now how had her "simple tailor" known precisely when station security would call her in?

She inserted the rod and went to the replicator to get a cup of coffee. As she picked up the cup, that very distinctive voice was saying, "—and you must _never_ underestimate Captain Sisko—"

_*_

The captain and he sat on visitor chairs behind Odo's desk: Sisko to the constable's right, him to the left. A summary panel of three, with just one decision to make: should they remand his patient to the civil health authorities back on Earth?

And the more he thought about it, the more sure he was that she had not actually intended to die. Consciously or not, she had just made the attempt too melodramatic, and too public. But he had not convinced these two of that. Or that he'd been right to entrust her to Garak, of all people.

Rather to his relief, the security office door slid open and the woman walked in. "I'm Ruth Devlin, gentlemen. I believe you wanted to see me?"

Sisko said, "Good morning, Miss Devlin. Please have a seat."

She sat down across from them: looking calm and rational now, with no trace of last night's wary guardedness. "I want to apologize, Captain. I should have considered the disruption I would cause."

"Apology accepted, Miss Devlin. But _our_ mental state . . ."

"I give you my word that I have changed my mind: I have decided to go on living. In fact, I've decided to go on living _here._ I plan to lease one of those empty storefronts on your 'Promenade.'"

"Miss Devlin, you are getting ahead of yourself. First you must convince me not to throw you off this station. I am contending with everything from merchants' complaints to a possible invasion from the Gamma Quadrant. I should ship you right back to Earth."

"Yesterday was an aberration: my life has been the very picture of stability. I'm thirty years old. I hold degrees in chemistry and mineralogy. Until quite recently, I was an assayer for the UFP Bureau of Mines, employed at their headquarters in Moab, Utah. As far as I know, no one is looking for me or has any complaint about me. But then I'm sure you've checked up on me."

Odo leaned forward, "Your full name is Ruth Giovanna Devlin. You quit your job twenty-three days ago. You have no criminal record." He turned to Sisko, "And she is _not_ going to tell us any more."

Sisko frowned. "What would you say, if I told you that staying here was contingent on your getting regular counseling from Dr. Bashir?"

"I'd say I can't imagine the woman who'd object to that."

Odo gave an amused snort.

"And Quark says you owe him some latinum. Are you going to pay him?"

"Of course not. When he let Mr. Garak save my life, he reneged on our agreement."

Sisko stood up and held out his hand, "Welcome to Deep Space Nine."

*

All the shops must be open now: the Promenade was crowded. Walking away from the security office, she passed a human girl in an elegant blue sari carrying a tray of bedding plants, a couple of Bajoran prylars arguing vehemently about the "Last Orb" and several glum Ferengi.

When she reached the replimat, Garak was just taking his seat at an empty table. Two elderly Bajoran women at the next table were making a great fuss about getting up and moving farther away from him. He ignored them. She got an artichoke omelet and a cup of coffee and walked over to join him.

He smiled up at her, "Good morning, my dear. I trust everything is in order?"

She set her dishes on the table and took her seat. "I'm afraid I have bad news."

His eyes widened, "Bad news?"

"Our friend Ruth has passed away. Luckily, _I_ am here to replace her."

"Ah! Poor Ruth. And what should I call _you_?"

"Call me . . . "

She shrugged, "Just call me Devlin."

*

Late afternoon at last: almost time for Felgar's weekly report. Good old Felgar, dutifully touching base, year after year.

He made one last flattering remark about the fit of Mr. Quochytewa's new suit and ushered the man out of his shop. Then he locked the door and hurried into his workroom.

Against his will, he could feel his hopes rising yet again. There _had_ been that hint of progress. It was undoubtedly another false lead, but . . .

He opened a hidden door in the back wall, walked into the room, sat down at his very unauthorized comm unit—and froze. The message waiting symbol was lit. Had Felgar actually sent an unscheduled message? That must mean _something_.

"Computer, show message."

Several paragraphs of text appeared. Encoded—but he could decipher the first three words.

How interesting: it was actually hard to breathe.

So it _hadn't_ all been for nothing, after all.

Was he _crying_? How undisciplined!

Oh, he would need to form alliances, gather a fleet: it would take more years yet. But he finally had that one vital game piece. And anyone who had ever opposed him was going to be so _very_ sorry.

"Computer, decrypt message."

The screen went blank, then the text reappeared, translated into clear Kardasi. He leaned back in the chair and bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile.

**We found him . . .**


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure you're not too warm? I'd be happy to drop the temperature."

"I'm fine; it just seems a bit . . . cozier back here." In fact, Devlin was roasting, even standing here in her slip. But Garak always looked so cold. He should at least be comfortable in his own workroom.

She handed her dress to him. He pulled a clothes rack from behind a cluster of empty shipping containers, hung up the dress and then brought the new one from his work table.

.

This dress was softly draped elegance in charcoal gray. As she stepped into it, he held her arm to steady her. As always, his touch was professional, impersonal and brief. He fastened the dress up the back, then stepped back to look at it. "Perhaps you're right: a shorter hemline _might_ work. Let's give it a try." He knelt by her and started hemming the skirt.

"I decided to take your advice," she said. "I did hire Quark to cater the opening."

"An excellent 'olive branch,' my dear. Though you were absolutely right to refuse to pay him for . . . the other matter. The sharper your business practices with a Ferengi, the more he'll respect you." He flashed a smile up at her, "You do have excellent instincts."

"I should have paid him _something_. It couldn't have been a pleasant sight: finding one of his customers half exsanguinated."

He placed one hand over his heart. "My dear Devlin, you wouldn't think that if you could have seen yourself. Your arms were folded on the table, your head resting on them—that wonderful flame-colored hair fanned out around your pale face. You were quite beautiful. Tragic, but beautiful."

"Oh. Well . . . thank you." She felt a bit overwhelmed. But she was also relieved. She'd been wondering for the last two weeks what she'd looked like. That was the problem with trying for a stylish suicide: in the ordinary course of events, you didn't get a critique of the finished production.

He made a circling gesture with his finger and she turned to her right.

"So are you ready for your 'open house?'"

"Almost, Rom has to finish upgrading the security system. And speaking of Rom, he can make the _Plitchitt_ game tomorrow. We'll have eight players. Rom is bringing his girlfriend. Lieutenant Reese is coming as my partner. I've invited that nice Bolian couple who own the produce market—"

"Ah! The president and the recording secretary of the DS9 Merchants Guild."

She smiled, "Well, of course. And the doctor. And you, _if_ you come this time." She glanced back and gave him a stern look that was wasted on the top of his head.

"I am sorry about canceling last week, but I simply had to finish that betrothal robe. Turn please."

She turned again and he resumed his hemming.

"And the handsome Mr. Reese is your partner for the evening? Then I assume your date went well?"

"It wasn't a date. Some of us went for coffee after our Bajoran history class and he happened to mention that he played Plitchitt."

"And as for Rom . . . I know I advised you to start making social contacts. But . . ."

"Well, he's been in the shop so much; we just started talking. He's surprisingly likable."

"If you say so, my dear."

"Are _you_ coming to my 'Grand Opening?'"

"I shall drop by, but only briefly. We don't want to give people the idea that I am somehow connected to your business ventures. As you have surely gathered by now, I am not the most popular person on this station. Turn please."

She turned once more and was facing him again. "I have noticed raised eyebrows any time I mention you."

"Then I trust you have _stopped_ mentioning me?"

"Of course. I have excellent instincts, remember? But why are you so unpopular?" I suppose the Bajorans still see you as an enemy. But why would other people dislike you? Frankly, I find you rather charming."

He actually blushed, the color rising up swiftly under the gray toned skin. "Why, thank you, my dear. It's kind of you to say that."

He stood up, "There, all done. Take a look and see what you think."

She crossed the room to the full length mirror. "Yes, the shorter skirt definitely works better."

He walked up behind her. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit today; they looked like a matched pair. Although a matched pair of _what_ she couldn't have said. "I must agree: it does suit you. Shall I just wrap up the other dress?"

"Yes, please."

He got the other dress, folded it, put it into a bag and handed the bag to her.

"You didn't answer my question. Why do people dislike you?"

"Then no one has 'warned' you about me? I'm astonished." He pointed at the battered brown couch by the workroom door, "Please, have a seat."

She did. He sat down too and just looked at her. She waited, by now thoroughly intrigued.

"The consensus of opinion is, that I am _not_ a simple clothier after all. That I am, in reality, a clandestine agent of . . . _the Obsidian Order._

"That is, of course, ridiculous. The Order no longer exists. Our government itself barely exists: the Detapa Council has only the most tenuous hold on Cardassia. Yet the occupants of this station still imagine _me_ as some sort of _spy._ A spy for _whom,_ pray tell. There is no viable Cardassian government to gather information _for._ "

He widened his eyes and assumed an expression of complete and utter innocence. "I _do_ assure you, my dear Devlin—all I am is what you see before you. Just an aging tailor, living a harmless and peaceful life."

_The tailor doth protest too much, methinks. And you were disappointed that no one told me._

"Of course that's all you are: just a boring old tailor. I couldn't imagine you as anything else." She stood up, "Well, I won't keep you from your tailoring any longer. And I will _never_ ask you about yourself again, as you so obviously _don't_ want to talk about it."

She managed to keep a straight face until she'd left the workroom, then she grinned all the way out of the shop. His "distinctly put out" look was priceless.

*

_Boring old tailor?_

Then he laughed and shook his head. She'd called his bluff the minute he started the game. He was glad he'd convinced her to go on living. She challenged him, kept him on his guard.

And then he also found her attractive. The humans were an attractive species: male and female. They reminded him of Bajorans, at least in appearance. All that sensitive smooth skin, like some erotic dream come to life. With every fitting he fought the urge to just . . . _touch_ her.

_You are a ridiculous old lecher!_

_Devlin_ didn't want _him._ She'd probably respond to any sexual overture like an out-of-cycle Cardassian female—with withering disdain or outright violence.

He walked over to the mirror again and sighed. He'd aged so much on this benighted station. There were new lines on his face. He'd put on weight. Yet he still had a younger man's appetites, still felt passion, desire. Once he had been the one pursued; who would want him now? By all outward indications he was a failure, a nobody. Oh, he had _plans_ : wonderful plans, grandiose plans. Plans were poor coin in the sexual marketplace.

Then he felt a sudden chill as something _finally_ occurred to him. _You utter fool! What if the human is a plant: an agent from Starfleet Intelligence, sent here to charm her way into your bed—and then your confidence._

He drew in a breath, calmed himself. No. If Devlin had wanted to gain his sympathy, or engage his curiosity, by _staging_ a suicide attempt, she would have staged it here _,_ in his shop. She wouldn't have gone on to the bar, where there was no guarantee that he would be the one to find her. He felt relieved by that reasoning, but still chagrined at how long it had taken before his suspicions were aroused. Was living among humans dulling his edge, muting his instincts? And their presence only added to the discomfort of his enforced celibacy. In his secret heart, he let himself pretend that they _were_ Bajorans—Bajorans who didn't hate him. In his rational moments he knew damn well the humans didn't want him either.

*

Bashir glanced around the shop and shook his head. Out of all the storefronts up for lease on the Promenade, why would she pick this?

"Well, at least these cases look less cluttered now."

Devlin smiled, "Oh, that's a tip Garak gave me." She finished the top of the display case and started polishing the glass front. "Showing fewer items makes your merchandise seem more exclusive. I had to put a lot of things in storage. But buying Thaleef's inventory does get me into business sooner."

Garak was giving her business advice? He hadn't mentioned that. It was probably good advice. Whatever else he might be, he was also a successful merchant. Surprisingly successful, under the circumstances.

He looked across the room at Rom, who was tinkering with something behind a wall panel. "Did Odo tell you to have more security cameras put in?"

"No, it was my idea; this station is crawling with lowlifes."

Those over-sized Ferengi ears caught the exchange and Quark's brother popped out of the wall. "Gee, Devlin, what . . . what would you _do_ if someone tried to rob you?"

She stopped her polishing for just a second. "Oh, I suppose I'd do whatever needed to be done." She glanced out the shop window. "The workmen have finished, Doctor. Let's take a look."

They walked out and looked at the front of the shop. The garish Andorian holo-sign was gone, replaced by a small metal plaque with tasteful lettering.

_Devlin's Knives and Collectibles_

"But how could Sisko let you lease the very store . . ."

"Why, Doctor, I don't plan to use the merchandise on myself."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, I've got to run. I have two cases of Larosian virus and a sprained wrist coming in this morning and who knows what after that."

"If you get a break this afternoon, drop by the open house. And remember—dinner and Plitchitt at my place tomorrow. And please _try_ to bring Garak this time."

"That's harder than you think. Garak never goes to _anyone's_ private quarters."

She gave him a skeptical look, "Then let's make an extra effort to bring him out of his shell."

He laughed. "I'll try!"

*

"Please join me in welcoming Deep Space Nine's newest inhabitant." Captain Sisko lifted his glass to her, "To Miss Devlin and 'Devlin's Knives and Collectibles.'"

The handful of humans in the shop raised their glasses. So did the small group of Bajorans who clustered near Sisko, hanging on his every word.

"And," he added under his breath, "here's to a truly odd sense of irony."

"Why, thank you," she whispered back.

"I'm not good at speeches, so I'll just say . . . I'm so glad to be here."

There was a scattering of polite applause. Sisko wished her good luck, tapped his combadge, told the engineering department he was headed there next and hurried out.

"I just need to check on the refreshments. Please, feel free to look around."

She picked her way through the Bajorans clustered around the kris daggers, then ducked around a Lissepian who was eyeing his drink as if he expected to find gree worms swimming in it.

Quark was in her storeroom, setting up trays of hors d'oeuvres on a caterer's table.

"This looks delicious, Quark, and very artfully arranged."

He scowled at her across the bowl of speckled mushrooms he was holding, "I just hope you're going to pay me the price we agreed on. This time."

"Mr. Quark, we have been over this before. You did not fulfill your part of our agreement. And you don't even _have_ a cover charge; Sisko won't let you."

"You owe me _something_ for what I went through—getting you down the stairs and across the hall to the infirmary without causing a scene. Passing a messy suicide off as just another drunk isn't easy, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I _mean_? There you were, head down on the table with your eyes bugged out and your mouth open, drooling. Covered with blood, all sticky and disgusting. _And_ you'd _. . . wet_ yourself! Blessed Exchequer, what a _stench_!"

He banged the bowl down on the table, "Well, what do you _think_ suicides look like! And never any consideration for whoever finds you like that."

"That's . . . that's not precisely how Garak described it."

"Never believe anything _he_ says, he's a terrible liar."

_Oh, I don't know . . . sometimes he's a rather sweet liar._


	3. Chapter 3

"I hope you don't mind having me instead," Dax said with a smile. "I am just as talkative as Garak— if that helps."

Devlin laughed. "Then I'm delighted you're here."

And she was. She had been intensely disappointed when the doctor walked in without Garak. But she'd never met a joined Trill before and they sounded fascinating. Maybe too fascinating. She'd felt an almost overwhelming urge to glance at the woman's abdomen—try to see the symbiont moving.

"And I'd _like_ to say he sends his apologies," Bashir added. "But the truth is, I can't even find him."

Dax leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, "Our Mr. Garak is being mysterious again."

Everyone around her dining table gave an indulgent laugh.

Rom took some soup and passed the tureen to her—then he looked at her arm. "Oh! Devlin! What, what happened to you?"

She pushed up her sleeve to get a better look at the rich purple bruise just above her elbow. Bashir whistled and started to get up. She waved him off and turned back to Rom.

"I'd almost made it home safely, when this little girl—Molly—came tearing out of a cross-corridor on a bike and plowed into me. And here came Daddy right behind: terrified that she'd been hurt and terribly embarrassed that she ran me down. He said he'd removed the training stabilizer—and she just took off without him."

She ladled some vichyssoise into her bowl, passed the tureen to Leeta. "It was worth it to meet the station miracle worker though. I'd heard him paged so often, I felt like I already knew him."

"Oh, I'm glad you've met Miles," Bashir said. "Isn't he terrific?"

"Holo-buddies," Dax explained, "currently re-fighting all the wars of ancient Ireland. O'Brien claims to be a direct descendant of the legendary warrior king, Brian Boru."

"Of course he does: every Irishman living claims that. For that matter, I'm probably a descendant."

" _And,_ " Rom said, "the Chief is _also_ a descendant of Sean O'Brien, the great labor leader!"

"Is that why he named his daughter Molly?"

She recounted the history of the radical "Molly Maguires." The conversation turned to the problems of the local merchants guild. The talk was interesting. Her Plitchitt partner was pleasant. Her Bolian guests, Mrs. and Mr. Pringiwix, offered her a position on the guild's "refreshments committee." It was a successful evening.

But she just kept thinking about how much Garak would have enjoyed it.

*

The next day she decided to skip the early morning fitting session. If Garak was "being mysterious"—apparently a frequent occurrence—she could wait him out. Instead she donned a black leotard and tights, carried her work outfit and went to the station's gym to get in an extra hour of exercise before she opened her shop.

Jadzia Dax was there, limbering up at the back of the room. Two other women were with her: a Bajoran with a trim dancer's build and a rather elegant human. She put her street clothes in a locker and walked back to say hello.

Dax greeted her with a smile and introduced the others: the station's second-in-command and a Keiko O'Brien.

So this was Major Kira; Garak had quite a bit to say about her _._ And the other woman . . .

"Are you Molly's mother?" She smiled, "I ran into her in the hall yesterday."

"That's not exactly how Miles tells it. I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I'm fine. She's a lovely child; you must be very proud of her."

"Why, thank you. Yes, we are. Do you have children, Miss Devlin?"

"Just Devlin, please. And no, I don't. Though I'd like to someday."

"We have two: Molly and our baby, Kirayoshi." She smiled at Major Kira.

"What about you, Dax?"

"No, no children right now. But I have raised several families."

"Ladies," Kira said, "this is a fascinating conversation, but we came here to exercise."

Dax snapped off a mock salute and they started their individual routines.

*

After her shower, she sat down on a bench to put her shoes on. She was running late. Across the room, a young Vulcan man was serenely conquering one of the treadmills. Except for him, Major Kira and her were the only people left in the gym.

Kira glanced over from her bench, "That's a pretty dress, did you buy it in Garak's? I see you coming out of there every morning, on my way to Ops."

_And aren't you the little busybody. Or does sleeping with the First Minister make you the social arbiter here?_

"Oh, my old wardrobe just wasn't right for a shopkeeper. I think I've become his best customer."

"I never buy anything from Garak." She gave a delicate shudder, "Even the thought of letting him touch me . . ."

"Really? He's always a perfect gentleman with me."

"Oh no, it's nothing like that. He behaves himself with his customers. But that man is the most dangerous person on this station. If you ever got in his way, he'd kill you without batting an eye. I know you humans find him amusing. But I keep trying to tell you— _you can't trust him._ "

"I don't . . . Thanks for the warning."

Kira nodded and left the gym.

_The most dangerous person on the station? How fascinating!_

*

She had just opened her shop when a girl from Station Services appeared with a bouquet of pale blue, delicately vanilla-scented Bajoran lilacs and a handwritten note. It was from Garak: an abject apology for missing the dinner. It included an invitation to join him and Dr. Bashir for lunch.

She studied the note: the formal language and the precisely formed handwriting. Whatever _else_ her oh-so-mysterious Mr. Garak might be, he was also a gentleman of the old school. A tailor, a spy . . . a killer? But he was also intelligent, cultured, charming.

Who _was_ he?

*

Devlin greeted them with a smile, put her dishes on the table and took a seat. Garak had been so apologetic about asking her to join them, but he truly didn't mind. She seemed to actually _like_ the Cardassian—and the poor man could use more friends.

She reached into a pocket, pulled out an isolinear rod and handed it to Garak. "There you go. And you should like this one even more. He wrote the _Discourses_ for a patron, but he wrote _The Prince_ for himself. You can tell the difference."

"You've got him reading _Machiavelli_?" He gave an exaggerated shudder, "God help us all!"

Garak held the rod up to the light and widened his eyes, pretending to suddenly be fascinated by it.

He laughed and so did Devlin.

" _Really_ , Doctor— _you_ never introduce me to the _interesting_ human authors."

"You don't need any encouragement in scheming and plotting." Then he ducked his head and looked up at Garak through his eyelashes, "Besides, you'll keep me around anyway."

The Bajoran man at the next table "harrumphed" loudly and cut up his food with great ferocity.

Garak grinned and tucked the rod into his jacket.

He saw Dax coming up the steps. She spotted him, moved aside to let a couple of bulky stevedores pass her on their way out of the replimat, and walked back to him.

"Bad news, Julian: the nav computer is down again—it may take all evening to fix it."

"And you can't see the play with me after all. Oh, bother."

"Oh, I know; why don't you take Devlin? Do you like Belath's comedies, Devlin? Oh, do say you'll go and keep Julian company."

"Well . . ." Devlin looked at him.

"Oh, yes. Please say you'll come with me. We don't get a roadshow production out here very often. It's supposed to be a real treat."

"All right then, I'd love to."

Dax smiled, "There, that's all settled then. I'll just let you get back to your literary discussion."

And she left, vanishing into the crowd on the Promenade.

Devlin looked at Garak, "Speaking of that: you promised to loan me some Cardassian literature."

"I'm so sorry, it slipped my mind. I'll bring something by your shop this afternoon."

"Have her read _The Never Ending Sacrifice_. That's a really _thorough_ immersion in Cardassian literature."

*

An empty cargo bay served as the makeshift theater, with a simple stage at one end and rows of mismatched chairs. The place was packed. She thought every Bajoran on the station must be here.

It seemed that Belath Jourgin had been Bajor's answer to Shakespeare; or at least to Shakespeare’s comedies. The play was in historical Bajoran costume, filled with flowery language and slapstick duels. She couldn't follow much of the plot, but the physical gags were universal. Maybe a pratfall was a pratfall on any planet.

Dr. Bashir and she joined in the laughter—until the entrance of the villain. He was scrawny, lecherous and mind-bogglingly stupid. He was also being played in anachronistic "Cardassian" makeup, with every feature exaggerated to stereotype. Every comeuppance he got from the other characters brought waves of laughter from the audience. The laughter had an edge of real meanness to it and barely suppressed anger.

She looked at Bashir, he looked back and they quietly got up and walked out. As they passed the last row of seats, a man stared up at the doctor and snarled something in Bajoran.

They were silent until they reached the privacy of the turbolift. After they gave their destinations and the lift began to move, she said, "Let me guess: 'cardie-lover?'"

"I suppose it's understandable after what they've been through; you just have to forgive them."

"No. I don't."

He looked surprised, "What do you mean?"

"They are my customers and my neighbors and I will treat them with unfailing courtesy. But just between you and me, Doctor—I don't like Bajorans. I find them unpleasant and self-pitying. Their grandparents gave up their planet without a fight. This generation finally found the guts to take it back. End of story. I wish they'd deal with it and stop whining."

He looked shocked. "I didn't realize you felt that way."

"I'm sorry. Of course I don't really dislike all Bajorans; that play just upset me. And Garak has been kind to me, and I've seen how they treat him. Oh, it's never seriously violent; I assume Sisko put his foot down about that. It's just a constant stream of petty slights. The turbolift door that isn't held for him. The 'accidental' jostle in the replimat that makes him spill his drink or drop his tray. Why does he _stay_ here? Why doesn't he go back to Cardassia, or anywhere but here?"

"No one knows what the real story is; with Garak you never do. But he did _something_ that got him exiled from his home. He's also been threatened with assassination if he leaves the station." His voice took on a bitter edge, "It was Enabran Tain's idea of a fitting punishment to make poor Garak spend the rest of his life surrounded by people who despise him."

"Who is Enabran Tain?"

"He was head of the Obsidian Order—and I'm happy to say he's dead."

"The intelligence service Garak worked for?"

"Ah, you know about that."

"Yes, Garak told me. Well, as good as told me."

Bashir grinned, "He makes me drag information out of him. He must really like you."

The turbolift glided to a stop at her exit point and the doors opened. "Goodnight, Doctor. I do enjoy your company—but I think I'll stick to non-Bajoran entertainment."

He smiled, "I'm not 'Doctor' _all_ the time. And Sisko is planning something called a 'Juneteenth' picnic. Garak has agreed to go; would you like to come with us?"

"It sounds like fun. Julian."

*

There was an Andorian ship here today, being outfitted for an exploratory run into the Gamma Quadrant. Needless to say, the shop had been busy. Then Dax dropped by just as she was closing and offered to buy her a nightcap. Now they sat on the upper level of Quark's, just unwinding.

Dax plucked the little parasol out of her second Risian Fizz. "So, how did the date go?"

"Date? Oh. You were playing Cupid. That's very sweet, but . . . no. He's just not my type. And I thought he might be . . . already spoken for?"

"Ah ha! You've finally discovered the number one item of station gossip."

Devlin leaned forward, "Well?"

"Nobody knows. They've been carrying on like that for years, but it may mean nothing at all. Does it bother you that Julian might be sleeping with a Cardassian?"

"No, I don't have an opinion of Cardassians. In fact, Garak is the only one I've met."

"Would you like to meet some more Cardassians? Two friends of mine from their Science Ministry will be here in a couple of weeks. They're running comm relay tests with Lieutenant Berkuta."

"Yes, I'd love to meet them."

"And won't you give Julian another chance?"

"Sorry, no. He is attractive, and charming. But he just doesn't do it for me."

"Who just doesn't do what for you?" Quark asked from just beside her.

"Quark! How long have you been standing there? And do you always eavesdrop on your customers?"

"He just got here," said Dax.

"And I wasn't eavesdropping," he added indignantly. "Who just doesn't do what for you?"

Dax stepped in, "We were just discussing how 'handsome' and 'sexy' don't always go together."

"That's crazy. Beautiful and sexy are exactly the same thing."

"No, they aren't," Dax said. Then she leaned closer to him and whispered, "But sometimes—when you really _want_ someone—they _turn_ handsome."

"What!"

Dax looked at her.

She shrugged.

Dax looked back at Quark, "It's a girl thing."

*

Heading home along the upper level of the Promenade, she spotted Garak downstairs in the replimat: nursing a last cup of something or other and engrossed in the padd he was holding. He sat sideways to her line of vision, that sinister profile in sharp relief. He was alone in the replimat, as far as he knew alone on the Promenade. That couldn't be his natural state: he was a wonderful conversationalist and raconteur, not arts practiced in isolation. Once he must have had acquaintances, friends, family—maybe someone who loved him.

What could he possibly have done to make his fellow Cardassians punish him like this? And was it even something she would find culpable? They came from very different cultures, after all. Or was Kira right to warn her about him? Bajoran prejudice or not, Kira knew him—and she really didn't.

She continued on her way, but the image stayed with her: hard-edged, clear and poignant.

Garak. So alone.


	4. Chapter 4

"I agree. Lord Harquil did betray Prince Theurelim. But there's no believable motivation. The betrayal is just forced into the plot to complete the repetitive pattern."

"But, my dear, that pattern frees the author to concentrate on subtle changes in tone and style."

"Maybe so, but the betrayal is still a jarring note in something that well written." She turned to Julian, "You've read _The Never Ending Sacrifice_ ; what do you think?"

" _I_ think I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"Really, Doctor," Garak said, "just because _you_ haven't the discernment"—

She loved watching Garak argue: he was so animated, so alive. She sat back to sip her coffee and watch his graceful gestures.

"Look here, Devlin, back me up on this."

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Julian. I'm afraid my mind was wandering."

"Garak is always saying that Cardassians are famous for 'attention to details.' I say it's an overrated trait. What do you think?"

"Why, Julian, in some circumstances 'attention to details' is the best trait a man can have."

She was looking at Bashir, but her peripheral vision was excellent.

_Oh, ho! I saw that grin._

*

"I _said_ ," Worf rumbled, "I would like to look at that katana."

The band standing outside her shop finished _Battle Hymn of the Republic,_ swung into _Stars and Stripes Forever_ and marched on down the corridor. Jake Sisko and Margo Berkuta, a pair of tall and slender humans, brought up the rear of the parade, holding up a huge banner:

JUNETEENTH PICNIC / TOMORROW / QUARK'S HOLOSUITES!

She turned her attention back to the matter at hand, took the katana down from the wall and presented it to her best customer with a slight bow.

The Klingon moved away from display cases and browsing shoppers, took a couple of practice swings, then placed the katana reverently on the counter. "That is a beautiful weapon. I will buy it. Put it on my account."

"You'll need a _wakizashi_ and a _tanto_ to complete the set. I have some on order."

"You have gained more knowledge of your wares."

"Mostly what I've gleaned from viewing Thaleef's catalogs." She pointed at the katana, "I do know that is excellent craftsmanship. You should be very happy with it."

"This sword is not for me. It is for Commander Dax."

"You're giving Dax a present? That's nice; what's the occasion?"

"There is no occasion. I want to give the commander a sword. I must go now." He picked up the katana and quickly left the shop.

So Garak was right: Worf was actually rather shy. But he must be madly in love if he'd reached the "giving her deadly weapons" stage. And Garak would not be the only one tracking Worf's romantic progress. This station was, essentially, a village and villages damn near ran on gossip. It would be next to impossible to be discreet—to fool people.

*

To his delighted surprise, Garak was actually comfortable _._ "Summer in Texas" was like the cool early mornings at home, except for the blasted light of course.

He sat alone at one of the long wooden tables overflowing with bowls and platters of food, and happily "people watched." Most of the station's humans were here, mingling with this program's crowd of computer generated ones. As usual, the other Federation races were joining in. There was also a large contingent of Bajorans, and assorted travelers. Everyone wore casual summer clothing and seemed to be in a relaxed holiday mood.

On a great expanse of grass, children—real and holographic—were playing some game. Other parts of the park were thickly dotted with trees; the general impression was one of overwhelming _greenness._ And of course Sisko had added a baseball diamond for the Bajorans. They were besotted with the alien game. Or as Bashir so dryly put it, "Baseball, the sport of emissaries."

At a nearby fire pit, the captain's son was cooking something called "barbecue," which smelled delicious. In front of the tables was a small stage hung with bunting in the flat primary colors humans were so fond of. He could hear the soothing gurgle of a brook and what he assumed was the call of some Terran bird. With each passing breeze, some of the overhanging trees drifted bits of white fluff onto the tables.

"Here we go, that's the last of them," Bashir's cheerful voice said. He and Devlin had returned, each carrying several pitchers. They placed them on the table and then sat down on either side of him.

One of the program's characters, a dignified white-haired woman, rang a handbell and everyone began to seat themselves. As the bench filled up, the two attractive humans were crowded closer and closer to him, a process he found delightful, if a bit unsettling. Julian was wearing one of his sleeveless resort outfits, showing off that slender, elegant body. Devlin wore a simple summer shift and sandals; he would _not_ look at the shapely bare leg pressed so tightly against him.

He waved a hand at the platters of food, "What an amazing assortment. What are all these?"

Bashir pointed out each dish in turn. "That's applesauce, fried chicken, corn on the cob, sweet potatoes . . . um . . . " He looked at Devlin, "I think this is more your territory."

She took up the recital. "Collard greens, hushpuppies, Hoppin' John." She pointed at a platter of crusted, slimy vegetable matter, "And fried okra! Now this is what I call a picnic."

Bashir whispered in his ear, "Traditional 'American' dishes; some of the names _are_ a bit peculiar."

"I heard that," Devlin said with a laugh. "At least we didn't name—"

"Honored guests," Sisko's sonorous voice said from the stage, "welcome to our Juneteenth picnic."

The crowd quieted instantly. He saw a young Bajoran woman hush her children, "Shh! The Emissary is speaking!" All eyes turned to the captain.

"I'm sure many of you have been wondering, 'What is Juneteenth and why do humans celebrate it?' Several hundred years ago, in one of the great nation-states of Earth, a civil war was fought to end the scourge of slavery"—

He leaned toward Bashir and whispered, "And you talk about _us_?"

—"however, the enslaved people in the state of Texas were not freed until Union general Gordon Granger arrived on Galveston Island on June 19th, 1865. Then a joyous celebration was held, much like the one we hold today. And over time that happy date, June 19th, was condensed to 'Juneteenth.'

"But in the larger sense, this holiday stands for all days of freedom, for all people who struggle"—

His attention wandered as Sisko swung into the standard Federation cliches. It was hard to concentrate anyway, with Devlin pressed so tightly against him: her hair swept up off her delicate neck and all that exotic smooth skin lightly dotted with perspiration.

_Stop this! The fate of Cardassia in your hands and you're distracted by your hormones like some idiot adolescent? Control yourself!_

After the captain's remarks, a chorus took the stage and sang several lively songs in intricate harmony. All the singers had Sisko's dark coloring. As did every human in this program. That could not possibly mean what he thought it meant.

A man in a black suit read some poetry from a printed book, then he bowed his head and spoke loudly to . . . someone. Oh, of course, "saying grace." The McElroy family did that in the replimat. And now everyone was talking and laughing and reaching for the food. Apparently the formal ceremonies were over. That hadn't been too bad.

"Did you recognize that passage?" Bashir asked. "That was from the Bible: an ancient theist text."

"No, I'm afraid I haven't gotten around to reading that. But Lieutenant McElroy has recounted your creation myth to me." And then—he _really_ couldn't help it—he brushed a speck of imaginary dust off his neck scales, picked up one of the serving bowls and offered it to Devlin.

" _Do_ have some . . . _apple_ sauce."

*

She'd come to the docking ring to meet the Cardassian scientists, but by now their ship was very late. She was about to excuse herself, when Dax's combadge chirped.

Sisko was terse. The passenger ship had been attacked by Klingon renegades. They were coming in now, with wounded. Dax was needed in Ops.

Dax told her, "Look after them for me," and took off.

Bashir beamed in with a medical team—and promptly recruited both her and a Flaxian woman who'd been waiting to board. "I can't waste transporter time or medical personnel on injuries that aren't life-threatening. I'll beam in gurneys; you two take anyone I point out to the infirmary as quickly as you can."

The ship docked and wounded passengers, mostly Cardassians, came pouring out of the airlock. The Flaxian and she started running people to the infirmary. On the first trip, they passed some off-duty Starfleet crew with more gurneys, heading for the docking ring.

Most of the last group to disembark wore mauve and teal crew uniforms. Among the few passengers were two Cardassian women. The tall younger woman seemed shaken but not hurt. But the older one was bleeding profusely from an ugly gash on her arm. She helped the younger Cardassian hold her up as Bashir had everyone still there beamed to the surgical suite.

The room was overflowing with wounded. The Flaxian waved a goodbye and left. They turned the injured woman over to a medtech and stepped out of the infirmary.

"Oh, my name is Devlin. Are you Miss Rejal? Dax was going to introduce us."

"Yes, that's right."

"Then I'm pleased to meet you. Though I wish it was under better circumstances."

"I'm glad you were here." Rejal lowered her voice, "And the other Federation people too. I doubt the Bajorans would have—"

"Get out of my way!" She saw Garak shoving his way through the crowd of gawkers outside the main entrance to the infirmary. He spotted them and hurried over.

"Miss Rejal, I understand Dr. Belor needs a transfusion. I believe we have the same blood type."

Rejal looked acutely embarrassed. She spoke—but to her, not to Garak. "I'm sure one of the ship's officers must have Ulani's blood type."

Garak grabbed Rejal's shoulders and forced her to turn and face him. " _Tell_ Dr. Belor there is type _ceph_ blood immediately available. _She_ may not think social conventions are worth _dying_ for! "

A look of deep mortification passed over Rejal's face. "Yes, of course I'll tell her." She pulled out of his grip and went back into the infirmary.

She had to ask. "Why would Dr. Belor turn down blood from another Cardass—"

"Oh, but I'm _not_ a Cardassian!" He lowered his voice to an anguished whisper, "You don't 'get it,' do you? No one here 'gets it.' The authorities just— _erase_ you. They expunge every clue that you ever existed: every copy of every record, every image. It is not just a loss of citizenship. When they exile you, you become a . . . a _nothing_!"

Such bitterness, such pain, in those beautiful blue eyes. She was filled with a sudden, irrational desire to track down "they"—whoever they might be—and hurt them.

Rejal spoke from the doorway, "Please come in, Mr. Garak. Dr. Belor does want the transfusion."

And suddenly he was cool, detached and just a bit amused by it all. "Do tell Miss Rejal that I apologize for my behavior. I'm afraid we're all under a bit of strain in these troubled times." He brushed past the woman and entered the surgical suite.

"I'm so sorry," Rejal whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She would never have believed that Garak could lose control like that. And what, exactly, triggered his outburst? The insult of having his very blood rejected? Or that this Ulani Belor was in danger and he was being kept from her?

_Just who is this woman? And what is she to Garak?_

*

Bashir, hurrying from one wounded Cardassian to another, thought he'd just seen something out of place in the crowded sickbay. He looked around.

Garak. But why . . .

Then he got it. Medtech Blenheim was standing next to Garak, unwrapping a transfusion kit. The man was here to give his blood to the very people who had rejected him.

His eyes were stinging. He wished someone would do something about the damn lighting in here.

*

Apparently, Devlin thought, Dr. Belor did _not_ enjoy being fussed over.

" _Really,_ Gilora, I'm _fin_ e." She waved away Miss Rejal's assistance, swung her legs over the side of the biobed and sat facing the other women.

"Go on," Dax said, "the Klingons attacked, your captain was about to surrender and then another ship showed up?"

"Yes, and it fought off the Klingons. The crew all think it was—"

"They think it was Dukat himself!" Rejal cut in.

Belor sighed and rolled her eyes, "We don't know that, Gilora. Anything . . . 'dashing' that happens in this sector is attributed to him."

Now she was just confused. "Wait. I thought Dukat was Bajor's last Cardassian prefect."

"All he is _now,_ " said Belor, "is a common pirate."

Rejal gave her an indignant look, "Well, he's braver than those spineless fools on the council. And yes—I _do_ think he's dashing."

She looked to Dax for an explanation.

"When the Detapa Council asked the Klingons for peace talks, Dukat captured a Klingon ship and went renegade. I guess now he's either a pirate or a freedom fighter; it depends on your point of view." She smiled, "Just don't ever mention him to Garak. Those two absolutely despise each other."

Then perhaps Dr. Belor's assessment was correct; she did not sound terribly impressed with the "dashing" gul. He did sound intriguing though, to inspire such very different reactions.

Had Belor warned Garak that his enemy might be close by?

*

"Don't worry about Dukat; I can handle him. Let's just get you ready for the next guild meeting."

She glanced around the empty replimat and sighed. They were back to discussing only the safely impersonal. "So if I want this spot on the executive committee, I should drop some broad hints?"

"Unless you want to be stuck on the refreshments committee forever, yes."

"How broad?"

"My dear, Mrs. Pringiwix is a Bolian; not the most perceptive race. I suggest: 'Mr. Thorval quit the _Executive Committee_ with no warning! _I_ would never do that! If _I_ was on the _Executive Committee_! _Who_ will you appoint to the vacancy?'"

She laughed. "That broad, huh? But won't the other guild members think I'm awfully pushy?"

"Most of them are afraid they'll be drafted onto the committee and asked to run some guild project. They'll be grateful to you. But _one_ of them will think"—he clapped the back of his hand to his forehead—'No! Some _brilliant_ advisor has taught this woman how to handle Bolians!'" He leaned back, laced his fingers together behind his head and gave a pursed-lipped little smirk.

She started laughing again, "All right, 'Brilliant Advisor,' who is it?"

He sat back up, "Maxill Clorthielie, purveyor of 'Argelian luxury goods.' He sees a position on the committee as a step toward challenging Mrs. Pringiwix for the guild presidency. And the election is only three months away." He smiled, "Of course, neither of them will win. _You_ will."

"What makes you so sure I'll run?"

"Because the guild president meets with Sisko, is privy to more information. Because information is power." He placed his hand on hers, "Because you are very much like _me,_ my dear."

Their eyes met; their gazes held until just that one nanosecond past comfortable.

"Do let me get you a fresh cup of tea. That one must be cold." He got up and walked behind her to the replicators.

She smiled. It was nice having Garak to herself like this. Meeting for a cup of tea before they opened their shops had become an early morning ritual.

He came up behind her and placed the new cup on the table, skimming his other hand lightly down her arm as he did. "There you are, my dear. Jasmine tea. I believe that is your favorite?"

He returned to his seat, "Well, enough of station politics. Let's get you ready for your first counseling session. Frankly, I'm surprised you've managed to put Bashir off this long. The good doctor can be quite stubborn about his professional duties."

He was once again cool, detached, vaguely professorial. She might have imagined his touch, for all the interest he showed now.

_Oh, are we playing games? Very well._

She ducked her head and looked up at him through her lashes. "Oh, _don't_ worry about _Julian_ ," she purred, "I can handle _him._ "


	5. Chapter 5

Dr. Julian Bashir stood stock still, staring down at the bongo drums sitting on the glockenspiel. Then he looked at all the other instruments strewn across the holosuite. What the hell just happened?

Devlin had arrived early for her first counseling session: full of enthusiasm, babbling on about _Federation Psychology Today_. She'd read an article on the latest advances in music therapy; it sounded fascinating. They simply had to try that.

He wasn't that familiar with music therapy. But if it would help her relax and eventually confide in him, he was willing to try it.

Then she refused to begin by just listening to and interpreting music. She wanted to _express_ herself. So they moved the session to Quark's and rented one of the soundproof holosuites—getting a knowing look from Quark.

After they conjured up, he was sure, every musical instrument known to the Alpha Quadrant, she dithered around, then finally settled on the tuba. Only then did she confess that she'd never learned to actually _play_ an instrument, any instrument at all.

He pointed out, very patiently and calmly he thought, that she might have mentioned that before they started all this. And that the tuba might not be the best choice for a beginner.

They'd just have to order a music tutorial from Earth, she said. That shouldn't take more than a few weeks. Once she'd had some lessons, they could schedule another counseling session. But they'd taken so long to get set up for this one; perhaps they should check the time?

Sure enough, they'd already gone past the hour he'd allotted. But, she cheerfully assured him, they'd made a great start! And then she swept out in a swirl of burgundy silk and left him standing here, wondering just _when_ he'd lost control.

*

She looked around the Promenade and smiled. At first, she'd seen only the Federation/Bajoran overlay: the colorful signs, the bustle of shoppers and alien travelers. It could have been any small artisans' district back home. But then she'd started to see the bones of it—the sweeping Cardassian architecture under the pleasant facade—metallic, stark and industrial. She found the dissonance oddly pleasing; this had become her favorite part of the station.

Today she'd dressed carefully in hunter green pants and tunic, a long white openwork vest. Pulled her hair back with a couple of carved wooden combs and kept her makeup to a minimum. It wasn't a look she would have chosen. But she wanted to tackle all the Bajoran merchants first and Garak said they'd find this attractive.

She peered through the window of Towset's Leather Goods _,_ watched Towset Lingrim wrap a package for a customer. The man exited and Towset was alone. She took a second to mentally review Garak's appraisal of him. Then she entered the shop and approached the plump, grandfatherly figure behind the counter.

"Mr. Towset?" She sounded tentative and shy.

"Yes, dear; that's me. How can I help you?" He'd brightened up at the sight of her; so far, so good.

She demurely offered her hand for a Bajoran greeting touch, "My name is Devlin, Mr. Towset. I own Devlin's Knives and Collectibles."

He took her hand, "Why, yes, dear. I've been meaning to drop in and look around." He was still holding her hand, now he patted it, "I would certainly have come in before now if I'd known the new proprietor was such a lovely young lady."

She tried to look slightly flustered and did not reclaim her hand. "Well, I . . . I'm here today as a member of the executive committee of the DS9 Merchants Guild . . ."

At the words "Merchants Guild" Towset released her hand and looked wary. "The Merchants Guild?"

"Well, there was a vacancy on the committee. And I _had_ said I'd like to do something to help. I mean, the Pringiwixes have been really nice to me. And then I guess . . . I must have volunteered?"

Towset grinned, "I know just what you mean, sweetheart. Mrs. Pringiwix has that effect on people." He sighed. "All right, what does the guild want this time?"

"Oh, no. I just want to tell you about the free advertising opportunity."

"Advertising? Captain Sisko doesn't allow advertising."

"He's given us special permission. Anyone who donates merchandise to the guild charity sale will be listed on the station newsnet as an official sponsor, for a whole week. It really is a unique opportunity."

He plucked one word out of all of that. " _Donate_?"

"Oh, not the wonderful things you have out here." She waved at the shoes, belts and luggage displayed around the shop. "But you must have some old stock: something that's gone out of fashion, or just didn't sell?" She put her hand on his arm, "And it's for such a good cause too: all those poor little war orphans, back home on Bajor."

*

He finished his medical log, left orders for beta-shift, read through his latest exobiology paper and submitted it for peer review.

There, done for the day.

He gave a long stretch, then he called up a list of station clubs and interest groups and ran his eyes down it.

Got it. Now for the membership list. He could almost remember her name . . .

There she was.

.

And he'd better read some of Jake's old reviews. Not to claim he'd actually attended. No. But he could always say he'd wanted to. It's just that doctors were so very busy.

Now, what to wear? Come to think of it, it had been a while. Of course, this wasn't quite the usual campaign. No, this was for an entirely different purpose. Then again, he thought he remembered long raven hair and . . .

No, no, no. Better to concentrate on his main goal.

_Just be your charming self, Julian. Come on, you know you've still got it._

***

Just two more merchants and she'd _finally_ be done. Mrs. Pringiwix's "little" guild assignment had taken up every spare minute of the last week.

She pretended to examine some Celestial Temple plates and a rather good oil painting of Sisko in the window of Pjalbeck's Souvenirs. Every Bajoran she met was eager to tell her the story of Sisko and the wormhole aliens/prophets. She still found it odd that the human captain was a figure of veneration in their religion. Although Bashir did say that—to his credit—Sisko found it odd too.

She peered into the shop. Good, Pjalbeck had finally finished with the customers. The day-tripping little Bajoran family hurried out: happy and excited, clutching their mementos of this special pilgrimage.

Fastening the top button of her severe gray business suit, she marched in, went directly to the counter and gave the shopkeeper a brisk Zeplerite greeting wave. "Devlin, DS9 Merchants Guild. I'm here to offer you a deal. One week of sanctioned advertising on the newsnet—if you donate merchandise to the charity sale. Interested?"

Pjalbeck narrowed the single eye in the middle of his forehead and regarded her carefully over his great elephantine nose. "Make it a month of advertising and you've got a deal."

" _Maybe_ we could swing an extra day." According to Garak, if Pjalbeck was willing to dicker at all, you would reach an agreement. Once she had his pledge, she'd approach the last merchant: the owner of the Vulcan buffet. This outfit would work for him too. She just had to be careful in her approach. Garak had warned her to not actually use the word "logical." "Use something like 'sensible," he said. It would have the same effect, but the pandering was less obvious.

*

Major Kira looked around the cargo bay, "But how did you _get_ all this?" She peered into the nearest box, "You even got old pence-pincher Towset to donate?" Then she spotted a box of boots, dumped them all out on the floor and started laughing. "All right, the rest of his stuff is great—but you'll never sell _these._ "

Devlin picked up one of the boots; it was a deep rich brown, intriguingly pebbled and textured. "Why not? They're beautiful."

"They're made of _pouthal_ skin; that's a large swamp lizard. And 'pouthal-wearing' is an insult."

_Oh. Got it._

"You see, collaborators' families were never sent to the labor camps. But they _were_ raised to see the Cardassians as just . . . _better_ than us. So they'd try to copy things like their clothing or their hairstyles. The Resistance would say they were 'wearing pouthal skin'—trying to look Cardassian."

She shrugged and started tossing boots back into the box. "Well, we can just throw these in the recycle unit. That's what Towset should have done ages ago." She held out her hand.

Devlin looked down. She was still holding the boot she'd picked up, and running her fingertips lightly back and forth over the beautiful patterned surface.

*

Garak peered across the aisle through the thicket of orange limbs and sighed. Why did Hudgens' Emporium have to be full of binge-shopping Edosian explorers right now? He just wanted to make a quick purchase and be on his way. All those legs, all those arms!

"Oh hi, Mr. Garak. Hey, are you trying to get something over there? Can I help?"

He looked behind him. Sisko's son, with a shopping basket full of . . . school supplies? "Uh, yes. I need some pricing wands for the charity sale, but—"

Jake stretched one long, lanky arm across the aisle, grabbed the entire box of wands and handed it to him, "Is this the kind you want?"

"It is indeed. Thank you so much!"

"Hey, I'm happy to help." He started to turn away, then he looked back, "It was nice talking to you, Mr. Garak. Have a nice day."

"And the same to you, Mr. Sisko."

He watched as the boy made his way to the counter, deftly navigating through the Edosians and ducking around a couple of Nausicaan roughnecks who stood in the middle of the room, looking at the scene around them in dazed wonder.

Manners! A non-Cardassian adolescent who had actually been taught _good manners_! His opinion of the human captain—which was already pretty favorable—went up a couple of notches.

*

She couldn't turn away a last minute customer, not even one this maddeningly indecisive. But if he said "on the other hand" just one more time . . .

"Well, if you're headed through the wormhole, you'll need," she nudged a third _sai_ over to join the pair, "a trio of really good fighting knives. You just never know what you're going to run into over there."

He wrinkled his forehead, "I don't know . . ."

She stifled a sigh. "Why don't you look around and see if something else catches your fancy."

He wandered off to the back of the shop and she sent Garak a quick message saying she'd be late.

*

The cargo bay door ground upward with its usual protesting squeal and she hurried in. "Garak, take a break—"

He was across the room—grappling with a huge Nausicaan man dressed all in black. They were crashing through the stacks of donated merchandise, fighting over a long, wicked-looking knife.

She shook off her shock and started forward. "Computer! Security to Cargo—"

The blow caught her on the side of her head; she fell to her knees, stunned. She looked up to see another Nausicaan looming over her, reaching for a knife on his belt.

Sheer instinct propelled her forward. She reached between his legs—grabbed and twisted. He gave a strangled gasp of pain. Then he grasped her hands, tried to pry her fingers open. From across the chamber, she heard a sudden, sickening _crack,_ then someone running toward her.

Her attacker finally had the sense to stop working on her fingers and pull his knife. She lunged forward, sank her teeth into his genitals and started chewing. He screamed and dropped the knife.

She heard someone behind her and looked up just in time to see a knife slash across her assailant's throat. A thin, reddish-brown line appeared across his neck. Then blood began to gush from his throat; she felt it spatter over her hair, her face. He started to lift a hand to his neck, then he collapsed.

She staggered to her feet and looked behind her. Garak stood there, knife in hand, looking down with a cool, clinical interest as the Nausicaan began convulsing and gasping for air. Then he knelt and pressed a hand to the wound on the man's neck.

The other one lay sprawled across some scattered fishing tackle—his head at a very odd angle.

There was a wash of displaced air as several columns of transporter sparkle formed. Constable Odo, accompanied by a security squad with phasers drawn.

"Odo," Garak said, "this one's alive; call for transport to the infirmary. Hurry!"

*

She got out of the way as Bashir came through the door of the surgical suite at a dead run, two medtechs just behind him.

"Damn it," he snapped at Garak, "who did you mouth off to this time?"

Garak stood up and pointed at the Nausicaan.

"Blenheim, Dirgan, get him on the table. The rest of you get out."

They all filed out: Odo, the security team, Garak and her. In the main room, they stood back against the walls and looked at each other. The Bajoran deputies still seemed edgy. Garak regarded them with a cool stare. But he never looked at her.

Bashir was giving orders in the next room—clipped, efficient. There was a minute of silence, followed by an oath that sounded quite incongruous in that cultured Oxfordian accent. Another minute, and the doctor walked out of the surgical suite, wiping his hands on a towelette. He threw it into the recycle unit, pulled a chair away from the wall, swung it around backwards and straddled it. "Too late," he told Odo. "He's dead." He looked at Garak, "Your work?"

"Yes, it was," Odo said, "but then he was quite anxious to save him." He looked at Garak too.

"I simply wanted to find out who they were. We went to the cargo bay to finish pricing items for the charity sale and those two attacked us."

"And you don't think they were there to kill _you_?"

"It would be difficult to say: so very many people want to kill me."

One of the deputies gave a quick barking laugh.

"I assume we interrupted a burglary. But do tell me if you turn up anything else. May we go now? As you can see, Miss Devlin and I both need to clean up."

She looked down at the blood on her dress.

"I still need statements from both of you."

" _Really,_ Constable, we _are_ the victims here."

"Very well, you can go. But I want both of you in the security office in an hour."

Garak nodded and started for the door; she followed him.

"Wait," said Bashir, "are either of you hurt?"

Garak kept walking, "No."

She agreed, "We're fine."

Odo said, "Garak?"

Garak stopped and looked back at him.

"Since when have you started helping with the charity sale?"

He smiled, "Since charming young ladies started asking me to help."

Odo just grunted.

They left the infirmary and started down the Promenade. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered, "Garak, you're bleeding."

He looked at the blood dripping down his left hand. "It's nothing, a superficial cut on my arm."

"It is not 'nothing.' If you won't let Julian look at it, at least let me give you a first aid kit."

He started to protest, then fell silent. He came with her, but he seemed distracted, distant. She remembered something Kira had said: that Garak could kill "without batting an eye." Did it bother him that _she_ had seen that cold blooded side? Did he want her to know only the gentle, charming Garak?

He was acting . . . _embarrassed_? It seemed so unlikely, but that was what she sensed in his silence, his reticent body language. Would he continue to pull away? The thought of losing his friendship was unbearably painful.

When they were both cleaned up, she would sit him down and make him listen to her. She had to tell him she was not repulsed by his killing the Nausicaans.

Far from it in fact: she thought he had been . . . quite impressive.

*

She left Garak in her front room with the first aid kit, took a quick shower and threw on the blue silk robe that hung on the bathroom door. When she walked back into the room he was standing at the far end of the dining table, turned away from her. He had his jacket and tunic off and was running a dermal regenerator over his left forearm.

She walked forward silently, bare feet on carpet, and looked at him. The pattern of scales on his shoulders and back gradually became fainter, less defined, as it moved down to his waist. She was surprised to also see well defined muscle—something his clothing usually hid.

He turned to see her standing there, set the regenerator on the table and looked away from her. She went to him quickly and stood very close, until he was compelled to finally meet her gaze. The emotions were so clear now on that expressive face. Yes, embarrassment—and a fear of rejection.

"You killed those men without batting an eye," she said quietly.

He took a step back, "I'm sorry, my dear. That's . . . not how I would want you to picture me."

She took another step toward him.

He stepped back again, "I know you must find that sort of violence . . . repugnant."

Another step forward, another answering step back. He was pressed against the wall now, further retreat cut off.

She looked into the astounding depths of those summer sky eyes. "One moment they were alive, the next—they weren't." She could hear her voice going husky, her breathing ragged. "You are very _good_ at that, aren't you?" She watched his eyes until her tone registered there.

He looked—astonished.

There was a bruise on the ridge over his right eye. "Poor baby," she whispered, "he hit your pretty face; he _hurt_ you." She stood on tiptoe and touched her lips to the bruise, ever so gently.

Garak drew in a sharp breath, then went absolutely still.

She brushed her lips over to his ear and whispered, "I'm _glad_ you killed them."

She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the patterns, the wonderful complexity. Her touch glided over his tough leathery neck ridges, up into his hair. Then she buried her face in his neck and stood still, breathing in his scent, waiting.

_No more games, Garak. Decide now: do you want me or not_?

His arms came around her, she felt his hands through the softness of her robe, caressing down her back. Then he pulled her tight against him and there was no doubt at all that he wanted her. She ran her hands down his chest, over the pebbled abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. She unfastened them and reached down, exploring, delighting in the alien detail of spiraling ridges. Then she lowered herself to the floor and helped him shed his clothes.

He dropped to his knees, opened her robe and started to run his hands over her. It wasn't a deliberately arousing touch; he just seemed desperate, starving, for the simple contact of flesh on accepting flesh.

She tangled her hands in his hair and lay back on the floor, pulling him down with her. She felt silken robe and rough carpet under her, cool scaled flesh all down the front of her. She reached between them, guided him into her and he started thrusting: fast and rough, with the frantic urgency of someone who has been deprived for a very long time.

The most dangerous person on the station—and he was hers.


	6. Chapter 6

A throwing knife whistled past Devlin. She ignored it. The next one almost nicked her. She looked up, "Stand somewhere else, boys. I'd hate to make a mistake on my tax forms."

The two big musclebound Dosi chuckled and moved away from her desk, then went right on hurling knives at the courtesy target on the shop's back wall.

She was never going to finish this before the charity sale.

She leaned across her desk and sniffed the rose again. A red rose, in a crystal bud vase. And beside it, a handwritten sonnet. They were here—on the desk—when she opened the shop this morning. Someone was a real romantic. Someone had read up on human courting rituals. And someone was also showing off—by breaking in without tripping the security system.

*

The cargo bay was filled with Bajorans now: milling about, picking through the merchandise. Of course the station _was_ Bajoran territory. She'd just become accustomed to the mix of Bajoran and Federation personnel, merchants and travelers from so many alien races. Today more Bajorans than usual had shuttled out from the planet, to help the orphans' charity.

She spotted Major Kira waving at her from a group that had gathered in the middle of the room. They were clustered attentively around a small Bajoran man, a white-haired pixie in flowing red robes. She walked over to join the group and nodded politely to him.

Kira said something to him in Bajoran, in a respectful tone. There was a discernible pause before she perceived the major's words as Federation Standard. The public universal translator must be having fits with this crowd, this noise level.

—"introduce the chairman of this year's sale. Miss Devlin, of the DS9 Merchants Guild." And then to her, "Devlin, this is Vedek Fortumal, the administrator of the Bajoran Orphans Fund."

She gave a deeper, more sustained, nod, "I am honored to meet you, Your Grace."

The little man smiled up at her, "I've never seen so many donations." He patted her arm: a quick, fluttery, tapping gesture. "We at the Orphans Bureau are so very grateful. If there is ever anything we can do for you, you have only to ask."

"Oh, Your Grace, I was just happy to help."

But the little vedek was staring at something behind her. So was Kira. She turned around.

Garak—in bright eye-catching orchid; as if the mere sight of his Cardassian features wouldn't command instant attention. He was pushing his way through the Bajorans, begging their pardon, loudly, in his most effusive language. And in his wake: hatred and loathing, rippling across Bajoran faces, echoed in backs gone rigid, fists clenched.

He finally reached them and favored Kira with a dazzling smile. "Ah! Major! How is the sale progressing? I _do_ hope we help those _poor_ little orphans."

Someone near them said quietly, "It was _your_ kind who _made_ them orphans." There was an ugly murmur of agreement from the crowd around them.

She raised her voice, "Vedek Fortumal, have you heard about the burglary? Mr. Garak risked his life to protect these donations."

To her surprise, Kira backed her up, "Yes, Vedek, Garak did stop a burglary. We're all very grateful to him." The Bajorans near them looked puzzled, unsure how to react.

Just then there were sounds of a scuffle from the far side of the cargo bay: angry voices and a great crash of breaking glass. Kira excused herself and ran toward the trouble, calling for Security as she went. The Bajorans looked across the room, trying to see what was happening.

She grabbed Garak's arm and headed for the door. He started laughing, but he came along willingly enough. Once safely in the corridor, she found an unlocked storage room and pulled him into it.

"Why are you deliberately provoking them! This is what Julian was talking about, isn't it?"

"Julian?"

"Yesterday. He asked who you'd been mouthing off to. Is this a regular thing with you? Every now and then you're just _compelled_ to drop the obsequious shopkeeper act and do something reckless?"

He abruptly stopped laughing and raised his eyeridges, "Oh, thank you so much."

She touched his arm, "You know what I mean. You're surrounded by enemies, living by your wits. You need to seem as harmless as possible, no matter how much you hate it."

"Well . . . It was actually you I wanted to see. I've found something quite unexpected in the station's open library files." He reached into a jacket pocket. "But if there were also Bajorans to annoy . . ." He grinned and shrugged, then he fished out an isolinear rod and held it up. "Perhaps we could discuss this human . . . 'instruction manual' this evening?"

*

"Come in, Doctor, have a seat." Sisko admitted him to his quarters, waved him toward the couch and dropped into a chair.

"I'm sorry to trouble you this late," Bashir began, "but there was an incident—"

Sisko cut him off, "I sincerely hope this isn't about Mr. Garak."

"Garak? No, sir. I don't think he's been causing . . . any more trouble than usual. Today."

The captain smiled, "I shall be grateful for small favors then." He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I've been on subspace all day, arguing with those nitwits on the Detapa Council. I don't think I could stand any more Cardassians right now." He lowered his hands and looked keenly at him, "An incident?"

"At the charity sale. There was—"

"The shoplifter? Yes, I know. Odo does report these things to me."

"There's more to it, sir. I was called in to treat a cut on the prisoner's hand. He told me that a volunteer at the sale accused him of pocketing a crystal offering bowl and then shoved him. In the ensuing fight a lot of donated glassware was broken and he was injured. And he insists he's innocent."

"They generally do."

"I realize that—but this man claims to be a victim of religious prejudice."

Sisko raised an eyebrow.

"He's an 'Akoremite'; the faction that calls the late Akorem Laan the 'True Emissary.'"

"I know who they are, Doctor. And no Bajoran I've spoken to seems concerned about them."

"Then I have to wonder if they've been ordered to soft pedal this. Our putative shoplifter says that, as a sign of protest, Akoremites wear the family earring on their left ear. He claims the merchant spotted that and falsely accused him because of it. And he says he'll never get justice _here,_ because all the Bajorans on the station are . . . Siskons."

"Siskons?"

"Siskons. Like 'Buddhists' from Buddha or 'Christians' from Christ."

Sisko looked horrified.

"He says there's been social ostracism of Akoremites, even physical attacks. It's confined to beatings and rock throwing so far, but . . ."

The captain sighed. "But it's so damn easy for this sort of idiocy to escalate."

"And he says some parish prylars are encouraging the violence. It sounds like this schism is much worse than we've been led to believe."

*

Her ceiling was a soft copper color; she'd never noticed how pretty that was.

"I don't remember this _exact_ procedure in _The Sensuous Terran._ "

Garak was kneeling in front of her couch, studying her intently. And that stare was even more disconcerting when he was still clothed and she was lying here wearing nothing but a thin gold necklace.

"Though it embarrasses me to admit it, I am not that familiar with human anatomy. And yesterday I was a bit . . . rushed. Tonight, I want to please you, and even an exceptionally gifted lover must start by learning the basics."

" _My_ , aren't we modest though."

"Shh! I am paying attention to your details."

One careful finger traced the edge of her ear, then gently probed inside it. She drew in a quick breath.

"Ah, you like that. That physiological response is found in Cardassian women too. Interesting."

"Would a Cardassian woman just lie down and let a strange man have his evil way with her?"

He sat back again and smiled, "Approached at the right time, yes."

"You mean Cardassian women have an estrous cycle, they go into heat?"

"And one approaches them out-of-cycle at the risk of one's life." He gave a wry little smile, "An arrangement common to many worlds, my dear. And one reason human females are so very sought after. You have the reputation of being . . . um . . ."

"Easy?"

"Certainly not. Just . . . warm and understanding." He ran his fingers lightly over her face, exploring the texture of her skin. Then he pulled her arm away from her side, nuzzled her underarm, planted kisses down her side and lightly nipped the skin over her hip bone. Not the route a human would have taken, and weirdly exciting because of that.

"Let me look at you." Then cool fingers were touching her and she was being examined with precise gynecological thoroughness. "Oh, there it is! I didn't even notice that yesterday."

"That's quite all right, dear—some human men never figure it out."

*

She stifled a yawn, then she took another sip of her raktajino.

"Are you feeling well?" Bashir asked. "You look tired."

She sat up straighter, "Tired?"

"You keep yawning and you've had dark circles under your eyes for days now. I'm a doctor, I notice these things."

"What things do you notice, Doctor?" Garak set his second cup of coffee on the replimat table and slid back into his seat.

"Julian thinks I look tired." She turned back to Bashir. "You're right, I've been up all night . . . reading _The Never Ending Sacrifice_. I just have to know how it turns out."

"You _can't_ be serious. At least promise me you two won't start discussing it at all our luncheons."

"We'll try to restrain our enthusiasm."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Oh, wait. I do have one question about _The Never Ending Sacrifice_." She looked at Garak, "'Lord' Harquil? 'Prince' Theurelim? I know it's just a novel, but _was_ Cardassia a monarchy once?"

"The official answer is: no, the story is simply an allegory. The _truth_ is: we _were_ a monarchy until about fifty years ago, when the last king was deposed by the original civil council."

"A monarchy?" said Bashir. "I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. Cardassia is a planet, an empire, veiled in secrecy. You know about the latest shift of power, to a supposedly 'democratic' council, only because the Federation has become embroiled in Cardassian affairs." He took a sip of coffee. "I will give the original council this much: at least _they_ didn't gain power by throwing the general population into chaos."

"What did they do?" she asked with a smile, anticipating some clever bit of political chicanery.

"They erased all mention of the royal family and the nobility from the Central Archives. Then they convinced the military to throw in with them—and the military erased the royal family and nobility."

Bashir said, "You're talking about a massacre."

"Yes. I am."

She studied Garak's face, searching for any hint of emotion there. "The transfer of power couldn't have been as smooth as you're implying. Didn't _anyone_ fight the takeover?"

"If they did, they were 'erased' themselves, in short order." He shrugged, "Oh, a few elderly Cardassians still whisper that there really _was_ a golden age, a . . . 'Camelot.' They are dismissed as harmless cranks. Younger Cardassians believe what they are taught: that those stories are only fables."

He reached for the sweetener, spooned some into his coffee. "But all this is getting us quite off the subject." He smirked at Bashir, "It is gratifying that _one_ of my young human friends has learned to appreciate great literature."

Bashir took the bait, or perhaps he was just glad to turn his eyes away from Cardassian darkness. "Great literature? Devlin, I can't believe you actually _like_ that book. It's . . . well . . . _never-ending_! Only a Cardassian could actually read the whole thing."

"Oh, I agree, Julian. Cardassians certainly do have a lot of . . . stamina."

*

"I'm not sure we should be here," Kira said. "We're not in the guild. And I don't know what Sisko would think of us getting involved in station politics."

Dax laughed. "Coloring an 'authentic hand-made election banner' isn't politics. It's just . . . "

"Civic engagement?" Devlin suggested. She sniffed the hyacinths she'd found in her shop that morning, took some more sorghum chips from the bowl on the sideboard and went back to the table.

"Well, _I'm_ here," Quark said, "to get rid of Mrs. Pringiwix—so I won't have to listen to any more long, boring speeches." He selected a marker and passed the box on to Mr. Pjalbeck.

Maybe. Or maybe he'd had his own run-ins with the ambitious Mr. Clorthielie.

"I'm happy to help, Commander," Lieutenant Berkuta put in. "But I have to leave early, I have a date with Jake Sisko." She gave them an embarrassed smile, "I don't _usually_ date younger men, but . . ."

"You see, Margo," Dax said, "I knew what I was doing when I paired you with him for the Juneteenth parade."

Devlin laughed. "Oh no, Dax has been playing Cupid again."

"I have an instinct for these things, thank you. Now if I could just get _you_ to listen . . ."

"Who, who are you trying to pair Devlin with?" Rom asked from the other end of the table.

" _Well,_ there _is_ a certain handsome gentleman she has lunch with almost every day."

"Julian!" Leeta said. "Oh yes, how perfect."

"I have _no_ romantic interest in Julian Bashir. And we need to get this banner made. The other candidates will have one when they announce."

"Don't you worry about them," Leeta said, "not after the wonderful job you did with the charity sale." The box reached her; she peered into it and pulled out a marker. "That's all anyone's talked about for the last half-month."

Mr. Pjalbeck was outlining a letter with meticulous care. He stopped, set down the marker and said firmly, "Clorthielie won't announce tomorrow."

"But we announce that we’re running on the first of _Hyrdthul_ , and the election comes two months later, in . . . _Poulkasin_? Sorry, I haven't adjusted to the Bajoran calendar: to me this is mid-August."

"Clorthielie can't run," Pjalbeck said. "He gave up his guild membership this morning."

"What!"

Everyone looked surprised.

"Why would he give up his membership? And how do you know about it?"

"I was his first customer this morning. I started to ask about getting a guild discount on a silver candy dish, but he had a text message on his comm and he asked me to wait a minute." The stocky Zeplerite paused and looked around the table, apparently pleased to be the center of attention.

"Go on."

"He read the message and went pale. He paced back and forth; he was _very_ agitated. Then he called Mrs. Pringiwix and told her he was quitting the guild—and leaving the station."

"Then my only competition is Mrs. Pringiwix. And I know I can beat her."

_Garak, you bad boy. What did you find on him_? _What did you threaten him with_?

*

There was nothing, Garak thought. Absolutely nothing. After sixteen days of investigation, he still had no clue who had hired the Nausicaans.

He heard a group passing by, laughing and talking. Curious, he went to the shop door and looked up at the Promenade.

Devlin, with several other merchants. The meeting must have just concluded—and Miss Chalan and Mr. Hudgens were still holding up a banner with "Devlin for Guild President" in brightly colored Bajoran script. It looked like her campaign was off to a good start. Thanks, at least in part, to his careful political coaching. And to his removing Clorthielie.

It had been a simple matter to discover the man's shady dealings back on Argelius II and send a copy of an old tax bureau warrant to him. Done the day before Clorthielie was to announce his candidacy, the threat was clear enough.

Then he laughed at himself. How could he be so serious about something so parochial: a merchants guild, a chamber of commerce?

Well, part of it was to get someone friendly to himself into station update meetings with Sisko. Someone perceptive enough to know which crumbs of information were valuable. But most of it, truth be told, was just to keep Devlin happy. When had that become so important?

Oh, he'd been drawn to her from the start. Drawn by the intelligence and wit, and the nascent political savvy. Like Bashir, she was both pleasant companion and intellectual goad.

And—unlike Bashir—she was willing to do more than talk.

*

She woke with a start and looked around her. Garak was fast asleep, lying on his side with one arm thrown over her. She peered at the lighted chronometer on the bedside table. It was early—but definitely morning. She'd finally gotten him to spend the night.

No, that wasn't accurate. He'd fallen asleep and she'd just been careful not to wake him. Oh well, it was still progress.

Her front door chime sounded. That must have been what roused her. She called the lights up.

Garak blinked awake, quickly looked around and oriented himself, then slipped out of bed and reached for his clothes on the bedroom chair.

"Go back to sleep," she told him. "I'll get rid of them." She found her robe; stumbled into the front room, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

There was a pretty, black-haired lieutenant at her door. She seemed vaguely familiar. "Hi, I'm Yolanda Salazar! Oh, I woke you up. I'm sorry. I should have called first, but I live right down the hall and I was just going on duty and—"

"No, it's fine. I'm awake now; what can I do for you?"

"Oh, I just wanted to schedule your tuba lessons. Dr. Bashir said you could fit in two per week?"

"Tuba lessons?"

"Well, I play the sousaphone in the DS9 Marching Band."

_That's_ where she'd seen her.

"And the concert tuba. And he said _you_ wanted to play. And you were looking for a teacher and would I help. And he asked so _nicely_. . ." She blushed. "And I'm free on _Rendac_ and _Cheldac_ evenings. Is that convenient for you?"

She searched frantically for a way out, but her sleep fogged brain couldn't seem to find one.

"Uh . . . Well . . . Rendacs and Cheldacs would be fine."

"Wonderful! I'll see you tomorrow evening then. Twenty hundred hours; in the holosuites?"

"Hmm."

"Great! See you then!"

She left. Devlin moved away from the door to let it close—and then she started to laugh.

_Why, Julian, you're a counterpuncher._

And now she was stuck with stupid tuba lessons.

She returned to the bedroom. Garak was standing by the bed, fully dressed and alert. She threw off her robe and crawled back under the covers. "Come back to bed; that was just my music teacher."

"Your what?"

She told him.

"Oh, very _good_ , Doctor."

"Come back to bed. We're civilians; we can sleep in sometimes."

"I should go now, before the corridors fill with change-of-shift traffic." He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over the chair. "You should have sent me home last night.” He slipped off his shoes and unfastened his trousers. "I'm putting your reputation in jeopardy." His pants, tunic and underwear joined the jacket. "We really must be more sensible."

She lifted up the covers and he got in beside her.

"You know, Garak," she said sleepily, "sometimes it's nice to just stay in and cuddle." She snuggled up to him and put her hand over his heart.

Garak went very still, then he put his hand on hers and whispered something.

"What?"

"I said—my first name is Elim. Please call me Elim."


	7. Chapter 7

Jadzia and Keiko were waiting outside her shop again and this time they'd brought Margo Berkuta. Why had she ever left those roses out where Dax could see them?

"Are you going to lurk here every morning? Don't you have anything better to do?"

Dax grinned, "Nope."

"We want to see if he wrote another poem," Keiko said. She turned to Berkuta, "He's been leaving poems or flowers every night for the last week."

No, for the last _month_. They just hadn't caught on until a week ago. She sighed and unlocked the door, walked in and called for the lights. The others followed her.

There was a small rosewood box on the front counter. When the lights went on its lid swung up, the _Star Dwellers Waltz_ began to play and holographic butterflies blossomed up from inside it. Gold ones and silver, butterflies like rubies and sapphires come to life. They filled the shop with a delicate lacework of metallic glitter and deep jewel tones. Then as the song ended they winked out, one by one.

Dax smiled and shook her head, "Why, Julian—I never knew you were this romantic."

"Is he getting in by declaring a medical emergency?" Berkuta asked. "Every night? He's going to be in big trouble when Odo checks the security logs."

"All right, show's over. I have a shipment of war souvenirs arriving on the Bajor shuttle, a list of collectors to match them to and _lots_ of packaging to do. It _has_ been lovely chatting with you."

"We can take a hint," Dax said with a laugh. "Come on, ladies."

Devlin shook her head as the door closed behind them. This wasn't some sudden fascination with her love life. This was about _Bashir,_ their friend and colleague. And she'd said, "No, I _don't_ think it's Julian," every day for the last week. If they wanted to think the gifts were from Bashir, let them. But Elim would just have to stop now; he was getting carried away.

She smiled. A month into this affair, there were damn few areas of the station where they _hadn't_ "gotten carried away." For one: O'Brien was livid over the way the turbolifts kept "stalling."

At least she no longer thought that Elim was sleeping with Julian. There were only twenty-six hours in a day, even for insatiable Cardassian sex maniacs. And all under the very noses of the other inhabitants of the station. She didn't know which she enjoyed more: Elim's boundless and inventive enthusiasm—or the sheer heady joy of getting away with something.

*

"I hope we can fit in a practice session while you're here. I could really use your help."

"But your comprehension and vocabulary have improved immensely," Rejal whispered. She shot a furtive glance at the next table—where Ordnance Chief Gervickas and his straight-laced Catullan second were engrossed in their own conversation and paying absolutely no attention to them. "My goodness, Devlin, I brought you those books only a month ago."

Devlin lowered her voice too, "My Kardasi _pronunciation_ certainly hasn't improved immensely." She took another spoonful of plomeek soup. This buffet had a terrific cook; she'd eat here more often if they didn't keep the room temperature so high. Gilora, of course, looked perfectly comfortable.

"You shouldn't be learning Kardasi at all. Those textbooks are restricted to a few native workers in the colonial bureaucracy. When the Customs Service boarded our ship, I thought they'd seize the rods as contraband." She gave a wry smile, "They never even noticed them: these days they're too busy looking for shape-shifters."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't put you in danger to indulge my whims. But the idea of a forbidden language is still a little hard for me to grasp."

"To learn our language is to have more knowledge of us, and knowledge—"

"I know, I know. 'Knowledge is power.' But I just want enough Kardasi to carry on a polite conversation. I don't want to learn any deep, dark secrets."

Rejal smiled, "Well—in that case—maybe we can work in a practice session tomorrow."

*

Garak dropped the measuring tool into his pocket. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hudgens; we'll need to reschedule this fitting. I'm . . . feeling a bit queasy."

The human merchant stepped back, but gave him a sympathetic look. "Lunch in the replimat? Anything with pineapple? My daughter says it's misformulating the tropical flavors again."

"That must be it."

He got the man out of his shop, made sure no one else was there and locked the door. Nothing got rid of someone faster than implying that you might throw up on them. He disliked being abrupt with Trevor Hudgens: the human had always been perfectly pleasant to him. But the fitting had run long and when the station's security grid finished its self-diagnosis and went back online he'd lose his comm window.

Granted, these were messages he hated sending—but he knew damn well he had to send them. He sighed and headed back to his clandestine comm unit.

*

Bashir glanced at the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Why did cooking have to take so long? A romantic non-replicated dinner without the actual _dinner_ wouldn't make much of an impression.

He carefully moved the candle aside and reached across the table to take Yolanda's hand. "Have I told you tonight how beautiful you are?" He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She stopped talking for just a second, blushed and smiled.

She _was_ beautiful; why in the world hadn't he noticed her _before_ he needed a tuba player?

He heard a gasp and looked over at the doorway. Lieutenant Berkuta, two members of her team and the two Cardassian science liaisons were just walking into the Celestial Cafe. He assumed they'd been working late on the relay upgrade. But Berkuta had stopped dead in the entrance, staring at him and Yolanda. Then she rolled her eyes, shrugged and went to join her co-workers.

What the devil was _that_ about?

*

She'd worked late, packing the collectibles for shipment. Now she felt the extra hours in her neck and back. She decided to take a walk to get the kinks out before she went home.

Strolling along the upper level of the Promenade, she spotted Elim downstairs in the replimat, nursing his usual last cup of rokassa juice and finishing up his accounts for the day. He hadn't noticed her, so she leaned on the railing for a moment to enjoy the view.

He was wearing the new brick red tunic. Brighter than his usually muted color palette, but she thought it suited him.

She went down the stairs and sauntered by the replimat. Giving him a casual nod she said, "Goodnight, Mr. Garak. Have a pleasant evening."

"Why, thank you, Miss Devlin. And a pleasant evening to you too."

She continued on her way, with just the tiniest extra sway in her walk, and did not look back.

He must have known a shortcut to the habitat ring; he reached her quarters before she did.

In the middle of the night she awoke, wrapped in his arms. When she started to turn over, he gave a tiny protesting whimper and pulled her closer. He seemed so sweet, so vulnerable, in his sleep.

_This is the real you, Elim. And I'm the only one who can actually see you._

She held him safe in her arms and drifted back to sleep.

*

Elim pointed at his tulaberry torte, "My dear, this is delicious."

"Don't thank me; thank Rom. He's spent more time repairing my replicator than I've spent programming it. Anything beyond the most basic dishes was giving it the collywobbles."

"'Collywobbles?' I must remember that one." He reached for the Haviland teapot, poured himself a cup. "So, what plans do you have for your day off?"

"Just a leisurely morning, then lunch with you and Julian. My self-defense class, my counseling session—"

"Ah! I'd forgotten your command performance on tuba." He was laughing.

She threw a barley muffin at him; he caught it and laughed harder.

"That's right, laugh at me! How could I know he'd call my bluff and actually arrange lessons?"

"I'm afraid many people have underestimated our Julian."

"Including you?"

"Frankly, yes. And after your counseling session?"

"Aroya is hosting a 'Meet the Candidate' tea for me at the Celestial Cafe. Then I have an engagement at eighteen hundred." She poured herself a cup of tea, added cream and sugar.

"Just 'an engagement at eighteen hundred?'" He wagged his finger at her, "No, no. _I_ am the mysterious and enigmatic one."

She picked up her cup, "I will tell you this much: I'm working on a surprise for you."

"In that case, I will be good—and _not_ uncover your nefarious plot."

She smiled, "Anything interesting on your agenda today?"

"I shall be quite busy, my dear, designing your inauguration suit."

"Now, Elim."

"Mrs. Pringiwix is not well regarded; you are. The guild election is only a month away. Precisely one month after that, _you_ will be sworn in. And you will need a more _executive_ wardrobe, Madam President." He smiled and raised his cup in a silent toast.

*

_So much for the leisurely morning_.

Devlin settled the baby on her hip and walked into the bathroom to drop his stinky diaper into the recycle unit and wash her hands.

Her front door chime sounded. "Molly dear," she called out, "please see who's at the door." There were a few seconds of silence, then she heard a familiar voice.

"Ah. Excuse me, Miss . . . O'Brien, is it not? I wished to see Miss Devlin to . . . um . . ."

She hurried into the front room and saw Molly staring up at a thoroughly bemused Elim. Taking a firmer grip on the baby, she carefully crossed the minefield of toys, coloring books and scattered markers to reach her front door, improvising as she went. "Mr. Garak. I'm sorry. I couldn't find that book you wanted to borrow."

"My, that is unfortunate. I'll just run along then, as I see you have . . . company?"

"Oh, you know the O'Brien children. This is Molly," she nodded at the little girl, who still hadn't taken her eyes off of Elim. "And this is Kirayoshi," she smiled at the baby. "Aren't they cute?"

He regarded them with the look usually reserved for unknown and possibly dangerous lifeforms. "Oh. Yes. They certainly are handsome youngsters." He raised an eyeridge.

"Keiko's going to Bajor for another ecological study. She and the children leave this afternoon. The Petersons were supposed to babysit so Keiko and Miles could . . . talk. But that fell through and Kira's on duty, so Keiko asked me if I'd watch them for a couple of hours."

"Why do the O'Briens need— Oh, I see." He flashed a wicked grin at her, "Actually, I found myself with a bit of unexpected free time and had rather hoped for some . . . conversation, myself."

"Alas, it was not to be. But hold that thought; if there's one thing you excel at it's 'conversation _._ '"

*

She was searching under her bed for Yoshi's rattle ball, only half listening to Molly babbling to her father in the front room.

"Daddy, what's a handsome youngster?"

"Why, that just means a pretty little snapper like you. Where did you hear that?"

"Mr. Garak said I was a handsome youngster."

A silence that seemed much too long followed. Then O'Brien said, very carefully, "And just when did Mr. Garak tell you that?"

  
She picked up the baby and held her breath; how much of that conversation did the child remember, or understand?

"Miss Devlin said, 'I couldn't find the book. Aren't the O'Brien children cute.' And Mr. Garak said, 'They are handsome youngsters.' And then he went away. Can we go for jumja sticks now? You promised, if I was good."

"Oh, oh that's all right then." He sounded relieved. "Jumja sticks is it? You'll be—" He stopped abruptly as she walked into the living room and glared at him.

"Oh. Miss Devlin. I . . . I didn't mean anything by . . ."

"Molly, can you be a big girl and watch Yoshi in my bedroom, just for a few minutes?" She got the children settled, closed the door. Then she returned to the living room, folded her arms and regarded their red-faced father.

"Really, Mr. O'Brien, I know Garak isn't very popular, but I've never heard him accused of being a child molester."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way." He paused, obviously uncomfortable. "He's just not the sort of man I want around my children. I know you and Julian like him. I see the three of you in the replimat, chattering away like magpies." He took a breath. "But he's dangerous. Really dangerous."

"People keep telling me that. But what has he actually _done_?"

"For one thing: we were out on the _Defiant_ , orbiting the Founders' homeworld, and he tried to blow the place up. If you want details you'll have to ask Worf: he's the one who stopped him. And beat the tar out of Garak when he jumped him, I might add."

"So, Garak tried to blow up the shape-shifters, then he attacked Worf, then Worf beat him up?"

"Aye, that's it."

"But I've seen them speak to each other. They seemed fine."

"Oh, as for that, I think Worf respected him more after they fought. You know how Klingons get."

"But when Garak had a chance to damage the Founders . . . Worf wouldn't let him."

"Well, that wouldn't have been honorable, you see."

No, she didn't see. What was DS9's tough little warship doing at the Founders' homeworld? Why was Elim even on the ship? And when he'd attempted a preemptive strike against a threat to the entire quadrant—Worf had stopped him! She didn't know which was more stupid: Klingon "honor" or Federation prissiness. The people of the Alpha Quadrant damn well had a right to defend themselves.

*

"And what will you be learning in your self defense-class?" Elim unwrapped his silverware and smiled at her across the replimat table.

"Today we begin the fundamentals of knife fighting. Worf says it's high time I learned to use my own merchandise."

"Quite true. And you will do well: you already have the one thing most needed for successful self-defense. You are willing to hurt people."

  
"Shouldn't that be, 'willing to kill people?'"

"No one is _sure_ they are willing to kill until they actually have. But you do know you will fight back if attacked. Nevertheless, you also need to learn actual fighting technique."

"Fighting technique?" Julian arrived, carrying a plate of banana fritters and a cup of coffee. "Sorry I'm late, it's been hectic this morning." He put his dishes on the table and sat down.

"Miss Devlin has taken my advice and joined Commander Worf's self-defense class."

"Ha! _I_ think she's dangerous enough already."

"I'm afraid I must disagree, Doctor."

" _You_ didn't do the autopsy on that Nausicaan she tangled with."

"Now, Julian," she said, "that was a simple case of mistaken identity."

"How so?"

"He mistook _me_ for an innocent bystander."

Elim smiled and smoothly changed the subject, "You might be considered 'dangerous' in your literary tastes, at any rate. I find your Nietzsche absolutely fascinating."

Bashir shook his head, "Devlin, Devlin, Devlin." Then he proceeded to tell Elim, in exhaustive detail, why Nietzsche was _not_ a typical human philosopher. She let her mind wander to more interesting subjects. Was Elim still feeling _conversational?_

Slipping off one high-heeled pump, she slid her foot across the floor, worked it up under Elim's pants cuff and ran her silk covered toes slowly up and down. She could see him struggling to control his expression. Then he set his coffee cup down and stood up.

"Well, if you'll excuse us now, I did promise Miss Devlin I'd show her the new suit." As she was slipping her shoe back on, he came around the table and took her arm. " _Do_ come along, my dear."

He hustled her down the concourse to his shop, opened the door and nudged her through it. "And now I am going to take you into that fitting room," he pointed, "and ravish you."

"Oh! That sounds promising!"

He pushed her into the cubicle and pulled the heavy curtain closed. Then he pressed her back against the wall, knelt, pulled her skirt up and yanked her panties down around her ankles.

And then he just—looked. In the mirror, she saw a frozen tableau of desire. What was he waiting for?

She heard the shop door open—and a distinctive, befuddled voice, "Mr. Garak, are you here?"

No! Morn! "Elim," she whispered, "get up! Get rid of him!"

He looked up—and _smiled,_ his eyes alight with pure wicked glee.

"Mr. Garak? Are you here? Your door was unlocked."

"Not now! Are you crazy!"

"Mr. Garak, are my pants ready yet?"

_Go away!_

"Where are you, Mr. Garak?" From across the shop came the sound of hangers being pushed to one side, as though DS9's resident barfly expected to find his tailor hiding behind a garment rack.

_Go away, go away_!

She heard the workroom door open. "Mr. Garak, are you back here?" A few seconds of rummaging about in the workroom, then she heard him walking toward the dressing room. "You said my pants would be ready at thirteen hundred"—

And she hit that savage, giddy moment when she knew she didn't _care._ Let Morn see them. Let the whole damn station come and watch!

The flame hidden in the embers sparked—and caught. She cried out.

From just a few steps away, a startled, frightened voice said, "Mr. Garak?"

Elim stood up, delicately patted his mouth with his sleeve and smoothed his hair back. Then he pulled the curtain open just a bit, leaving her concealed, stepped out and spoke in a cool, detached tone. "Were you looking for me, Morn?" He pulled the drape shut again and she sagged back against the wall, gasping for breath.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Garak? I heard . . . something . . ."

"Why yes, Morn, everything is just fine. Now then, I believe you came in to pick up your new trousers? Let's just see if I left them over here."

They were moving away. She rearranged her clothing with shaking hands.

_Listen to him, so cool and unruffled._

Then it hit her.

_Elim, you rat! You knew when Morn was coming in. You got back at me for teasing you in front of Julian—and now you're out there laughing at me!_

_Oh, no!_

She yanked the curtain open and stalked out. Elim was behind the counter. He looked up, saw her and froze. Morn turned around to stare at her.

" _Mr. Garak,_ I am not pleased with your work."

"Er . . . What . . . What seems to be the problem?"

"Your layout is hurried and perfunctory."

One corner of Elim's mouth twitched. He controlled it.

"Your technique is sloppy."

His eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter.

"You show very little mastery of your tools."

His lips were pressed tightly together, but he was still in control of himself, barely.

"And, if _that_ was Cardassian attention to detail, I shall have to find a . . . a _Klingon_ tailor."

"Oh," Morn said, "do Klingons sew too? Maybe you should go to Commander Worf for a fitting. I'll bet _he_ has mastery of his tool."

Elim collapsed slowly forward onto the counter, buried his face in the crook of his arm and succumbed to an attack of hysterical giggles.

"You know how to find me—when you are ready to apologize."

And she turned on her heel and walked out.


	8. Chapter 8

Bashir tried again, " _Devlin,_ go to the shelter!"

"No. Give me something to do; I'm not the 'sheltered' type."

What was wrong with her today? She'd been preoccupied at lunch, now this nonsense. If Sisko caught him harboring a loose civilian during a station defense drill, he'd have his head.

The alarm had interrupted their first music therapy session in the holosuites. Devlin had been playing scales on the tuba. Over and over. He'd welcomed the drill. At that point he might have welcomed an actual emergency. But then she'd followed him to the infirmary and refused to leave.

All right, first things first. He would deal with her in a moment. The scenario for this drill was that the Dominion had invaded, and Jem'Hadar shock troops had taken several levels of the central core. His orders were to get through the enemy lines and establish a field hospital in the large break room on level eleven. He had a squad of Bajoran militia as escorts.

He divided the staff and their escorts into three groups, gave each a different route to try. Then he handed Devlin one of the backpacks filled with medical supplies, and a low-powered target phaser. "If you can't keep up—or someone with a 'Jem'Hadar' name tag shoots you—we leave you behind."

"Fair enough." She shrugged into the backpack and slipped off her high heeled shoes to run safely.

His group moved out. The big Bajoran sergeant went first; then another soldier, himself, Devlin, Nurse Jabara, Medtech Dirgan, Medtech Blenheim with the crash cart and two more soldiers. This part of the Promenade was empty; they ran down the concourse single file, hugging the wall. When they reached a turbolift the sergeant waved his men into position on either side of it and signaled for a car. As the doors opened, the soldiers rushed in with weapons drawn.

The sergeant popped his head back out and waved the rest of them in. The doors closed and the lift began to move; one of the militiamen must have already given their destination.

In the close quarters of the lift—he finally noticed something. Instantly, his mind made the leap from observation to diagnosis.

The lift stopped; the doors opened. They hadn't been descending long enough to reach level eleven.

He had to lower the odds. "Sergeant, I want your people on point."

"Sure thing, Doc." The sergeant waved his men out into the hall, but stayed in the lift himself.

"Computer! Emergency speed to level eleven!" The doors slammed shut and the lift dropped at double speed, throwing everyone off their feet. He scrambled to his knees and fired his phaser at the sergeant.

The man flinched, "Hey!"

"He's a shape-shifter! We have to hit him ten times!" Four other beams hit the sergeant.

"Ouch! Damn it, I surrender!"

"Hit him again!"

The Bajoran pulled his own target phaser, got off one shot. Another flurry of beams hit him. "I'm down, I'm down!" he yelled. "I concede ten shots! Shit, that hurt!"

The lift stopped. The doors opened.

Sisko stood there, chronometer in hand.

"Sorry, Captain, he tumbled to it." The sergeant got to his feet, reached into his tunic, unfastened a hidden name tag and showed it to them:

FOUNDER

"Good work, Doctor." Sisko actually looked mildly pleased.

They all got to their feet and walked out of the lift—then Dirgan admitted, "His shot hit me, Doctor. I wouldn't be able to walk." Jabara showed Devlin how to link arms and they picked up the medtech in a two-person chair carry. At the sight of a civilian, Sisko frowned at him.

"Trying something new, sir. Volunteer stretcher bearers." He headed for the break room at a fast clip, away from the captain.

As they ran down the corridor, Jabara whispered, "How did you spot the hidden name tags?"

"They _all_ had one crooked shoulder seam: something was distorting the line of their jackets." Then he grinned, "I haven't been hanging out with a tailor all these years for nothing, you know."

*

By that evening, she was ready for a quiet language lesson in the privacy of her own living room. It had been an exhausting day.

Gilora raised her voice slightly, "Computer, replay last pronunciation drill."

Once again, she tried to repeat the simple phrases. At this point, she understood quite a bit of Kardasi. But forming sounds that alien was difficult.

She'd hoped to study Elim's pronunciation. But, like most Cardassians, he never spoke Kardasi around aliens. He'd simply adopted Federation Standard as his second language. He spoke it fluently, with no accent, only the careful pronunciation of a non-native speaker. In his exile, he'd had no one to speak Kardasi with. But that was going to change.

The drill ended. Gilora stood up, "We'll have to stop here: I still have a report to write."

"Thanks for coming over. And tell Dr. Belor I appreciate her letting you quit early."

"Oh, we finished the upgrade early; Ulani had an engagement at eighteen hundred too." Rejal frowned, "She wouldn't say what it was. I don't know why she's being so mysterious."

Elim knew she'd be occupied now. And she remembered how he'd rushed to offer his blood when Belor was hurt.

An old, familiar pain filled her.

She said goodnight to Gilora. Once she was alone she began to pace. She would not let the jealousy overcome her this time.

Elim had made no promises; she had no right to be possessive.

She would just _ask_ him about Dr. Belor.

The appointment time was just a coincidence. Ulani Belor was probably nowhere near Elim.

*

Garak pushed Belor behind the row of cargo containers, "Shh, someone is—"

The cargo bay door hissed upward. He drew his phaser.

A figure in a _chakreth_ farmer's cowled cloak was silhouetted against the light from the corridor, then it stepped into the dimly lit bay. "You asked for this meeting, Garak." The voice was muffled, indistinct.

He lowered the phaser and walked over to the door. Belor remained hidden as an emergency backup.

"Well, Garak, you keep proposing an alliance. What could you bring to an alliance?"

He kept the phaser pointed at the floor and handed over the padd he held in his other hand. "Do you recognize this genetic profile?"

There was a moment of silence, then an indrawn breath. "This is a fake. There is no such person."

"I can have a tissue sample delivered to you. Feel free to have your own geneticist verify it."

"You're serious."

"I know who he is and where he is. Now—what can _you_ bring to an alliance?"

*

Elim's image on her comm screen looked amazingly cheerful. "My _dear_ Miss Devlin, isn't this a _lovely_ evening?" He tried to look humble, "I am prepared to tender that apology now. Perhaps you could join me for a light supper?"

"Apology?"

"I believe there was some complaint about my . . . 'work.' Sloppy layout, all that. _You_ remember."

Oh _._ The dressing room. The rest of the day had been so hectic—she'd just forgotten to be angry.

"In my quarters at, say, twenty hundred hours? I know this is short notice, but I've simply had no chance to call before now."

" _Your_ quarters?" She'd never been in his rooms; he seemed to regard them as an inviolable sanctuary.

Now he looked positively smug: sure that her curiosity would overcome any lingering irritation.

"I am _so_ sorry, Mr. Garak, but this _is_ short notice—"

"Supper in my quarters, and I will . . . I will reprogram my door lock to accept your retina print, to show what _trust_ I place in you."

She rolled her eyes: that sounded like the classic setup for a confidence game. But all she said was, "Your place, twenty hundred. I'll be there."

*

Elim's small dining table was an oasis of color. The tablecloth was a length of rose colored damask from his workroom. She'd seen the elegant blue china in the display window of Hudgens' Emporium. The champagne was from Quark's. The silver candles and fragrant white roses were from kiosks on the Promenade. He must have rushed around, frantically buying all this before the shops closed.

But the rest of the room filled her with sadness. Cheap hotel furniture: a gray leatherette couch, one end table and a metal cabinet. No scattered ephemera—no personal touches at all. He'd lived here for years; why had he left no mark? Was it a refusal to grow comfortable in his exile? Or something worse? Was he punishing himself? Did he think he didn't deserve a home?

"You seem rather pensive tonight. I do hope my apology will cheer you up." The twinkle in his eyes made it quite clear what form his apology was going to take.

"And I do expect a _thorough_ apology. I almost had a heart attack when Morn walked in."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't get an extra little kick from the danger of discovery, the marvelous _naughtiness_ of it all."

She looked at him, started to speak, blushed and looked away. "Oh, damn."

He laughed and poured her a glass of champagne.

"Are we celebrating something?"

"Only your very welcome company, my dear. But do you mind if I drink water instead? I don't care for champagne." He got up and walked over to his replicator.

"Elim . . . before you replicate supper, I need to ask you about something."

"Of course. Just a moment, please." He faced the replicator, "A carafe of water, slightly chilled." The carafe sparkled into existence. He picked it up and turned around. For a moment he looked confused—then his face just went blank. He dropped the carafe and crumpled to the floor. There was a sickeningly sweet odor. Pain lanced through her head.

She jumped up and stumbled over to him. He was unconscious: his pupils constricted, his breathing shallow. The replicator must have been booby-trapped; she could still smell the poison gas. She grabbed him under the arms and dragged him into the hall; the door closed behind them.

"Computer! Medical emergency, _outside_ Chamber 901, Habitat Level H-3!"

*

Bashir beamed into the infirmary rumpled, half dressed—and absolutely furious.

_So help me, Garak, if you don't stop doing this to me I will kill you myself!_

Two beta-shift medtechs were settling the Cardassian onto a biobed. He looked pretty ghastly, but he was definitely breathing. He took a quick look at the vitals display. No, that didn't look like poisoning. More like . . .

"Computer, run a complete blood analysis."

*

Elim blinked owlishly up at her from the biobed, "An attempted _abduction_?"

"Odo's convinced of it," Bashir said. "Your blood workup showed an anesthetic concentration of valmathaan gas. And he found a residual electrostatic charge in your quarters. It looks like someone beamed in to collect you, only to find that Devlin had already dragged you out of the room. You're just damn lucky she picked that moment to return _The Never Ending Sacrifice_. And that valmathaan doesn't act as an anesthetic on humans. And now Odo thinks . . . Those Nausicaans, could that have been a kidnapping attempt too?"

"They pulled knives on me, Doctor. I didn't ask what they wanted; I simply defended myself." He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, "Well, I'll just go home and freshen up now. All night and half the next morning is quite enough infirmary time for me."

"Not just yet. I want a full-body scan on you both, just to be sure there are no aftereffects."

Julian had her under the scan when they heard Nurse Jabara in the next room.

"You can't just walk out, Dr. Bashir hasn't released you. _Mr. Garak,_ you haven't— Oh! That is the most exasperating man who ever lived!"

She was inclined to agree. Elim was avoiding her. Once again she'd been put in danger because of him; once again he wasn't going to tell her what was going on. Or so he thought.

*

She reached for the signal plate—and Elim's door opened at her proximity. It was still programmed to accept her retina print; he must have forgotten about it in all the excitement.

There was no one in the front room. She walked in and looked around. Odo's people had left bits of dismantled replicator on the floor. The table setting was undisturbed, but the champagne was flat and the roses were starting to wilt.

Then she heard voices coming from an inner hallway. It sounded like Elim and Dr. Belor.

Were they talking about her? Were they laughing? The last time . . . terrible things had happened.

She should just leave, let Elim have his little intrigue. It wasn't as if she loved him: she didn't love.

She also didn't run away.

She walked silently down the hall, stopped just outside the first door's sensor range and settled in to eavesdrop for all she was worth. That's when the tone of the voices finally registered. They were speaking Kardasi, and they were arguing. Elim sounded cold and imperious. Belor seemed diffident, but still determined to have her say.

She stood there and listened . . . and gradually realized just how much danger she was in. She couldn't understand every word, but the parts she could piece together fascinated and frightened her. And that was _not_ her Elim's voice. That was the voice of— _Garak._ The man everyone here had warned her about: icy and deadly. And now she knew his secrets.

_"If you ever got in his way . . . "_

She could sneak back out, and she'd be safe. If she pretended to know nothing. If she stopped trying to fathom the mystery that was Elim Garak. If she settled for forever knowing only part of him.

She took the last few steps. The door opened and she walked in.

They were sitting at a small holo-projector table with a star map floating over it. Belor gasped and stared up at her in shock. Garak hit a control and the map disappeared. He started to rise from the table, reached into his jacket, then sat down again.

She spotted another chair in the corner. She got it, placed it at the table and sat down. She folded her hands on the tabletop and turned to look at him. Someone very scary looked out of his eyes.

"I have been learning Kardasi and I have been listening to your conversation. You are plotting against the Detapa Council. Some mysterious new ally is vitally important to your cause. Dr. Belor thinks they may be responsible for the kidnapping attempt. You disagree and you refuse to tell her who this person is. I'm good at this. I am also dangerous to you."

She stared into those ice blue eyes. "I am _Devlin,_ the woman _you_ helped create. Tell me who you are, what's going on and how I can help. Or use that phaser _now._ "

She saw cold calculation in those eyes—and then a genuine struggle.

Then the ice melted away and her Elim was looking at her. He slipped something back into his jacket; she'd guessed right about the phaser.

He folded his hands on the table, copying her gesture, "Then I will tell you who I 'really am.' I am the last—"

Belor gasped and cut him off with a flow of Kardasi.

He snapped at her in the same language, "Dr. Belor, it is _my_ decision to make."

Then he smiled, suddenly charming and conciliatory. "And we will need new recruits to our cause, won't we, Ulani?"

Belor gave a resigned sigh.

"Yes, Lord Garak."


	9. Chapter 9

"Actually, it's 'Theurelim Quintrane Jerott ZerKaiten, Baron _of_ Garak.'" He smiled at Dr. Belor, "Which Ulani knows perfectly well isn't as impressive as it sounds; we were only minor nobility."

He paused, probably deciding just how much to tell her.

"You see, unlike humans, _our_ aptitudes and abilities are primarily genetic. So a family was, quite literally, _bred_ to lead the civil government. They lived sequestered lives, strictly controlled by both law and custom. The noble houses were just cadet branches of the family. We had a great deal of privilege and a little more freedom. But in cold fact—we were just a reserve breeding stock.

"During the great purge, I was only a child. But as a young man, I realized the council was hedging its bets: retaining at least one member of the nobility. And if they'd bothered to save me, a mere auxiliary, surely they'd also spared a member of the royal family itself.

"I’ve spent _thirty years_ searching for that person—and building a network of secret monarchists. Early on, I planted young operatives in the lower echelons of the Central Archives. Eventually, some of them rose high enough in the bureaucracy to risk their lives combing through the top secret records."

He leaned forward, suddenly animated, "And they've finally found him! He's five years younger than me. He teaches at one of our regional colleges. And he has no idea that he is the heir to the throne. But locating him merely begins our struggle. And we _must_ prevail. My home has been misruled for decades; with the Detapa Council in power it is in _anarchy_."

His voice broke, "Who am I? A man of many faults—but I have never broken faith with my people! Never!" He looked away, visibly struggling to regain control, then he looked back at her.

"Well, my dear, you said you wanted to help. If you are foolish enough to get embroiled in my intrigues, I would value any help you can give me." Then he fell silent and just _looked_ at her.

"Elim . . . You're lying."

He started to reply. "No, you've had your say." She thought for a moment. "You have simply asked me to believe _too many_ improbable things. A monarchy I'd never even heard of. All of Cardassia now denying it ever existed. A secret organization undetected for thirty years in the most paranoid society in the quadrant. A lifetime obsession with 'the lost dauphin.' This has all the trappings of an elaborate confidence game. And I will not be a fool. I will not believe all this just on your word."

"His word and mine," Dr. Belor said quietly. "Lord Garak is who he says he is."

All the jealous suspicion came flooding back.

"And you know Elim . . . _intimately_ enough to vouch for him?"

"My father, Getal Felgar, was his family's butler. We played together as children. I was _there_ , when the soldiers slaughtered his family. When he saved my life." The Cardassian woman was blinking back tears.

_What can I say to that?_

"Elim . . . I _will_ believe that you come from an elite, established family. At least that would be consistent with your manner and your tastes. And if there is something that would help you without hurting anyone else, I'd be happy to do it."

He was beaming at her, "It just so happens there _is_ something and it won't harm a soul, I swear."

_Oh, that was glib! Which means it's something you've been manipulating me toward since the moment you decided not to kill me!_

"I need you to do what my first operatives did, all those years ago. Go under deep cover. Establish relationships, on the chance we might utilize them someday. There are people whose help we might need in the future, just two hours from here. We can't afford to waste such a resource."

He gave her a rueful smile, "I'm so sorry, my dear—but I must ask you to be my liaison to Bajor."

*

Garak wrapped up the impromptu meeting, walked Belor and Devlin to his door and calmly sent them on their way. Then he walked over to his dining table, snatched up the bottle of champagne and hurled it at the wall, relishing the sound of shattering glass.

What in all the hells was _wrong_ with him! That alien, that _amateur,_ was out there right now, sashaying about the station with his secrets in her head. He _should_ be planning some quiet, unobtrusive way to kill her.

And when Devlin walked in on him, she _knew_ he might kill her. He'd seen the knowledge in her eyes. She knew the danger and confronted him anyway. Obviously, the woman was not entirely sane.

Well, neither was he. No one could be, after seeing the things he'd seen, doing the things he'd done. Was _that_ the hold she had on him? Was he looking for a match to his own madness? Or maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe he just craved the _affection._ All his adult life, Cardassian women had adored and indulged him, just because of what he _was._ And when he was exiled, he was cut off from all that, suddenly and completely. No Cardassian woman—or Cardassian man, for that matter—wanted him now. And his much vaunted charm had _not_ proved irresistible to aliens.

Until now. Until this . . . this _Devlin. She_ wanted him—and it seemed she had him.

He looked at the glass shards littering his carpet and sighed. He could have just let her kill herself. Why must he _always_ complicate his life?

*

Bashir set the scones and blackberry jam on his dining table and took his seat.

Who would want to kidnap Garak? He'd lain awake most of the night, asking himself that question, and was no closer to an answer. He'd become somewhat hardened to the fact that people, probably several people, wanted to _kill_ Garak. But the idea of someone _kidnapping_ the Cardassian seemed even more sinister.

He took a sip of his moba juice.

" _Reminder: You have a meeting in Conference Room Three at zero eight hundred hours_."

He jumped and sloshed the juice on himself. "Damn it!" He set down the glass, picked up his napkin and dabbed at his uniform sleeve. "Computer, I have no meetings scheduled today."

" _A_ _meeting in Conference Room Three has been added to your schedule by this station's commanding officer. You are listed as meeting facilitator._ "

*

He walked into the room and took a quick inventory of the people seated around the conference table: Ananda Patel. Leeta and her friend M'Pella from Quark's. A young Vulcan man, one of the line servers from the Vulcan's Forge Buffet. Lieutenant McElroy's wife. Trevor Hudgens. Deputy Hwel's husband. Tilson Graham, the leader of the station's Ethical Culture congregation. Commander Soward's daughter. Henry Quochytewa from the shipping brokerage. And the two Beekim sisters: the elderly Bajoran ladies who owned the toy store. Twelve people crowded around a table meant for eight. Whatever did they have in common? And what did Sisko expect him to say to them?

They'd reserved the chair at the head of the table for him. He slid into it and started to ask Leeta what was going on.

"Good morning, Doctor," Mr. Hudgens said. "And may I say, this is an _excellent_ idea! I've been thinking we should have something like this—when the Dominion could invade at any moment."

"And I'll do my very best," M'Pella said. "Of course, sometimes I faint when I see blood. But I can learn to control that. I'm sure I can."

"Why . . ."

"Mr. Hudgens is correct," the Vulcan put in. "In times of peril it is both necessary and logical for civilians to also . . . 'do their bit.'" He handed him a padd, "Captain Sisko posted this just last evening. I assume more people will respond as the word spreads."

_CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS  
_

_Our Medical Department is now forming a Civilian Auxiliary. This elite group will be trained_

_in all aspects of emergency medical care, including "Volunteer Stretcher Bearing."_

_Introductory Meeting: Tomorrow, 08:00, Conference Room Three_

_Instructor and Entirely Voluntary Director: Dr. Julian Bashir_

_All civilian residents are encouraged to sign up._

_Deep Space Nine Needs **You**  
_

Bashir sighed and handed the padd back.

"Excuse me, Doctor," Amy McElroy said, "but didn't you bring a class schedule?"

"I think I left it with my petard."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll have one at the next meeting. Um . . . Let's start by going around the table and introducing ourselves. Please mention any prior medical training."

*

"No! These are _my_ chairs!" Devlin tightened her grip on the chair and glared at the Pakled. The replimat was overrun with the Pakled crew. And they did _not_ honor the human custom of "saving" seats for latecomers.

He finally let go of it and stomped away. She felt a tug on the chair to her left. Another Pakled. "This is not— This is Ensign Snipe's chair. And he wants to give it to you."

She looked around, saw Mr. Yilmaz and his postal cart just passing out of sight around the curve of the Promenade. "There he goes now!" She pointed. "There! That chubby human with black hair!" The Pakled man blinked in confusion, then hurried away in the direction she'd pointed.

Another Pakled reached for the right-hand chair. "These chairs belong to Lieutenant Snipe. And she's giving them away. She's in Adventure Outfitters. Skinny little Bolian girl, you can't miss her."

Another confused look, "She will give me this chair?"

"Not just this chair, sport—every chair in the replimat." She lowered her voice, "Better hurry before someone else gets them."

He gave her a sly smile, let go of the chair and rushed away.

Another tug to her left; this time she didn't even look. "Snipe and Hunt Incorporated," she declaimed, "is giving away all the furniture—"

She heard a burst of giggles and turned to see Leeta and Rom standing there, laughing.

"Quick, sit down before I give away the whole damn station."

Rom set his glass of snail juice on the table and they took their seats. Leeta smiled at her, "Your message said you wanted my advice."

"Yes, about Bajor. I'd like to finally visit your planet. But I don't know what to see first."

"Oh! The Capital City Artisans Festival starts tomorrow! It's the last public event before the Autumn Days of Remorse. You could take the tour of the Kai's Palace. And go to the Trade Fair. They sell the most beautiful things there. My father used to take me"—

Elim had given her this "assignment" just to get her out of his hair. The idea of the Bajorans ever throwing in with him was ludicrous. But if she proved she _could_ make valuable contacts, he'd take her next offer of help seriously.

—"this time, I just _told_ Quark I'm taking some time off to visit my family. I wish Rom could come too, but his son might get home on leave any day now." Her eyes lit up with a sudden, happy thought, "Oh! Devlin! Why don't _you_ come with me! My father would love to meet you and he has plenty of room in that big old house. Please say you'll come; it would be so much fun."

_Finally._

"Oh, Leeta, that does sound like fun. If you're sure I won't be too much trouble."

*

Her door chime sounded. That would be Leeta, come to walk to the morning shuttle with her. She dropped the last stack of clothing into the carry-all on her bed and went to answer it.

Odo stood there. She felt a sudden chill.

"Constable, how can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you this early, but I need to speak to you. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Please come in." She waved a hand at the armchair and sat down on her couch.

He perched on the edge of the seat and clasped his hands on his knees. As always, that mask-like face showed no emotion—but his body language read as deeply uncomfortable.

"I am not here in an official capacity. I have come to tell you something, not to ask questions. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"I have been torn," that grating voice went on, "between guarding a friend's secrets and protecting someone . . . vulnerable. I have decided that the latter is more important."

He paused.

"A couple of years ago, Garak blew up his own shop"—

She listened without comment, refused to show any reaction whatsoever. But inside . . .

Elim, her Elim: not just a spy, not just a killer, but some sort of state torturer. Odo spoke of his own suffering at Garak's hand, but the pictures that sprang to mind were out of Earth's sorry history.

Finally Odo stopped speaking, got up and walked to the door. It opened, but he just stood there, looking out into the corridor.

"I am truly sorry, Devlin, but you needed to know."

"But we _don't_ know the whole story. You said Tain had some sort of hold over him. And in the end, Garak rescued you. There is goodness in him too. I know you see it—you just called him your friend."

"Oh, I think that hurting me hurt him too. That living on this station has somehow brought out the better part of him. But that goodness is erratic, unreliable. I like Garak. I can feel pity for him. But I will never, _ever,_ trust him. And neither should you."

"Constable, you said you had to protect someone 'vulnerable.' You must have formed that image of me when I first arrived here, months ago. Why are you telling me all this _now_?"

He finally turned to face her and she could have sworn he looked amused. "Miss Devlin, I read a _lot_ of human literature. When I examine a crime scene and find champagne, roses and candlelight . . . That does seem to imply something a bit more intimate than a friend dropping by to return a book."

She smiled and shrugged. Odo wished her a good day and left.

She walked to the viewport, stared out into space. She had known Elim was dangerous, even deadly. Truth be told, she sometimes found that aura of danger . . . arousing.

But _this—_ Her Elim, enforcing the will of the State through pain and terror.

But he wasn't that evil. He _wasn't_. Somehow, Odo must have misinterpreted _—_

The chime sounded again. She went to the door; it was Leeta.

"Are you ready to go, Devlin? We have to hurry, it's almost departure time."

"I . . . Yes, just let me get my bag."

Somehow the idea of just _getting away_ for a couple of days was enormously appealing.


	10. Chapter 10

"This is not a public area, Miss. Will one of the faithful vouch for you?"

Leeta's father stepped forward, "I will, Brother." He winced as the burly prylar grasped his ear. The monk closed his eyes for a second, presumably reading Darrah's _pagh,_ then he released him and waved their group into the next vast, high-ceilinged chamber.

Once out of the man's sight, Darrah Zolta gave her an embarrassed smile and rubbed his ear. She thought Leeta looked like her father, if you could imagine the pretty red-haired dabo girl as a fiftyish plumbing contractor.

Mr. Darrah seemed nice like Leeta too, though that niceness was being sorely tried today. She'd been spotted as a human infidel at the palace gates and was given a blue "guest" badge to wear. Once their tour group went beyond the area open to nonbelievers, she was challenged by every prylar/guard they met. She would never have seen this much of the palace without a Bajoran sponsor.

And the Kai's Palace was worth seeing. She'd expected a larger version of the elegant austerity of the station's shrine, but _this_. . . This was like a cross between New Angkor Wat and the Vatican. Every wall decorated in bas-relief or intaglio, or covered with an intricate mural or silken tapestry. Every floor marble or exquisite parquet or inlaid tile. Every molding or ceiling beam or lintel carved by a master's hand. And _all_ of it just a backdrop for priceless paintings, statuary and historical artifacts.

The Cardassians had stripped the planet of its mineral riches, its "sacred" Orbs—and its pride. But not of _these_ treasures. The Kai's Palace, and the Hall of Vedeks nestled in its shadow, stood in stark contrast to the shabby, war-torn city that surrounded them. She wondered, not a little cynically, just what deals the vedeks had cut with their Cardassian overlords to assure that.

Her party passed a small group of Bajorans lined up outside an ornate double door. These particular pilgrims looked positively ecstatic. She nudged Leeta and discreetly pointed at them.

Leeta whispered, "They each get a ten minute private audience with the kai. You've got to do good works for _years_ to even get recommended."

After the comments she'd heard from Kira, meeting Kai Winn was an honor she'd gladly forgo. But the average Bajoran seemed incapable of making a rational judgment of the woman. The very sight of her sent them into raptures of obsequious groveling.

Which confirmed Elim's assertion that the religious hierarchy, not the strife-torn civil government, was the real power center of Bajor. He'd laughed when she said she might cultivate Major Kira just to meet First Minister Shakaar. Well, she'd met him, on one of his frequent trips to the station. He was big, bland and boring. And, she'd come to realize, little more than a figurehead. So much for her "excellent political instincts."

***

He fiddled with the resolution of the wall displays, polished his Fauci Research Medal, rearranged the medical padds on his desk, tossed a wilted Andorian ivy into the recycle unit. Anything, he understood perfectly well, to just put off thinking about it.

It had been such an ordinary day. Then he canceled a lunch date with Yolanda to update his medical log—and his world rearranged itself.

He was entering the results of recent diagnostic tests, when one notation leaped out at him. He'd missed it during the actual scan; it wasn't what he was scanning for. It took his stunned mind a few seconds to accept what he was seeing. Then so many thoughts and emotions came crowding in, all in a jumble, impossible to sort out. Simple astonishment. Sudden understanding. Concern for his patient. The old, half-forgotten humiliation of feeling . . . naive. And some darker emotion, one he did not want to name.

He stopped in his tracks, forced himself to sit down in front of the screen again. There was also a medical mystery here.

_Concentrate on that, Doctor._

This was damn peculiar. Peculiar, hell—this was biologically impossible.

*

Where was the crowd? And why was the fair relegated to this sleepy suburb? This could be one of the small market squares of Tuscany: surrounded by ancient buildings, cobblestoned, with a small lawn and a fountain in the center. The faint scent of burning leaves was carried on the cool autumn breeze, but the sun shone down with a Mediterranean intensity. The setting was pleasant, but this was hardly the big, bustling event she'd been led to expect.

Leeta's father seemed embarrassed, "I'm sorry, Miss Devlin. This fair was much busier right after the Cardassians left, but then it started losing money and it's been going downhill ever since."

"Oh, don't apologize, Mr. Darrah; this is lovely—and the workmanship here is astonishing."

She meant it. The exhibits were set at wide-spaced intervals around the perimeter of the square, each under its own colorful marquee. The three of them had already examined pottery, tooled leather goods and cloisonné, and watched a weaver demonstrate her considerable artistry. Every item here was beautiful and unique—made with a true artisan's painstaking care.

"But why did the fairs start to lose money?"

"At first, there were off-world tourists and art dealers again, just like in the old times, before the Cardassians. But with the threat of a Dominion invasion hanging over us, no one comes here anymore. And Bajor is still recovering from the Occupation: we just can't afford these things ourselves." He forced a smile, "Well, this is a nice day; maybe the crowd will pick up later."

They walked on, the other two slowing their pace to let her navigate the cobblestones. Next time she'd have sense enough to wear low heels.

A tall, blond monk with sharp aquiline features glided past them, silent as a shadow in the pale blue robes of some visiting off-planet order. There was a flutter of wings as a flock of tiny, chestnut-brown birds swooped down and lit on the fountain. On the lawn, a puppeteer entertained an audience of three children and one weary looking groundskeeper.

She spotted a display of knitted goods at the next booth. Good, this breeze was getting colder.

The proprietor rushed to wait on them when he saw her UT pin and her nose, and pegged her as a human tourist. But she introduced herself as a fellow merchant and they chatted easily, until she asked if catalog sales took up some of the slack in trade. The concept seemed totally alien to him.

"Wait a minute. You're saying people just see _holo-views_ of your merchandise? And then they send the payment first—and _trust you_ to ship the item?" He started laughing, "Oh, you had me going there; I thought you were serious!"

She didn't know what his problem was, but the conversation seemed to be over. She bought a navy-blue sweater coat, to contrast with her ivory dress, and slipped it on.

As they headed for the next booth, Mr. Darrah was chuckling. "You humans do have a crazy sense of humor."

"Oh, she meant it, Daddy; humans buy things that way all the time." Leeta looked at her, "I'd never even heard of that until your people came to the station."

"You're serious. Bajor has _no_ direct—"

And the idea was _there_ : in her head, full-blown.

"Mr. Darrah, you're a businessman. Imagine you've just had a brilliant idea for a new venture, but no idea how to implement it and no knowledge of Bajoran intellectual property law. Who is the _best_ person you could go to for advice?"

"Well, Torren Birkit is supposed to be the best civil advocate in town—if I could afford him."

"Where do I find him?"

"I think his office is on Kalva Street, near the Hall of Vedeks."

"Perfect. How often do those trolleys run?"

"Every ten minutes. Why—"

"I'm sorry, I have to go." She whirled about and started back to the trolley stop

.

Leeta started to laugh. Her father called out, "Wait! You'll never get in to see him without an appointment!"

"Mr. Darrah," she called back over her shoulder, "are you a betting man?"

*

Wainscoted walls, even here, on Bajor. What was it with attorneys and dark wood wainscoting? She looked around the lounge: an overstuffed leather sofa and two matching chairs, somber-hued portraits on every wall, occasional tables and lamps in ubiquitous brass and glass. The room fairly screamed, "hot shot lawyer."

"Your Grace," a deep voice said from the doorway, "please allow me to apologize for not greeting you personally. I'm afraid I was in a meeting when you arrived."

So this was Torren Birkit. A tall man with iron-gray hair and a look of quick intelligence, he hurried in, ignored her and gave a stiff-necked bow to the elfin figure sitting next to her on the sofa.

"Vedek Fortumal, it is an honor to meet you. How may I help Your Grace? If this is about the Orphans Fund . . ."

"Well, yes, in a way," Fortumal said. "Miss Devlin has some marvelous ideas about job training programs for our adolescents. Even more wonderful, she wants to give ten percent of the company to the Orphans Fund."

"Company?"

"I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. A bad habit, I'm afraid. This is Miss Devlin, the young lady who ran the _extremely_ successful Deep Space Nine charity sale for us. Perhaps you saw the news reports on it?"

Torren finally glanced at her, "Oh, er, yes, of course." He clearly had no idea what Fortumal was talking about.

"And now she has the most astonishing idea for a new business venture, one that will open up a whole new market for our Bajoran artisans. So we just came right over to ask your advice on how to implement it."

The lawyer looked at her again, one eyebrow on the rise.

She smiled and waved him toward one of his own armchairs, "Do have a seat, Mr. Torren—and I will tell you all about Mr. Sears and Mr. Bezos."

*

Torren set the padd down, "All right, let's be sure we understand our first steps. Miss Devlin, you will hire the company's art buyers and find outside counsel on Federation import law. You will also engage a 'catalog' designer and bring in experts to train Bajoran employees."

He looked at Fortumal. "Your Grace, you must convince the Vedek Assembly to accept the Fund's equity in the company in lieu of a trader's tithe. This idea has potential, but we will have a cash-flow problem at the start.

"And I will negotiate our contracts with the Artisans Guild and the Artisans D'Jarra. I will also convince the Space Ministry to lease us a portion of the station's docking ring for offices, an order center and a shipping department."

Then he frowned. "Miss Devlin, I will ask you again: your 'originator's equity' is only twenty-five percent—are you _sure_ you won't also invest some money in the company? This may be your only chance to acquire a controlling interest."

"No, it should be owned and run primarily by Bajorans. I'll just be a silent partner: I have no interest in the day to day grind of running a company."

The lawyer shrugged, "As you wish." He picked up the padd and looked for the exact wording, "The Orphans Fund will be given ten percent of the company 'in recognition of the Fund's good works.' I will be named permanent legal counsel and own five percent. The remaining sixty percent will be sold to individual investors. Now are both of you in agreement with these provisions, and with the initial division of responsibilities?"

Fortumal nodded.

"I agree to everything stated so far," she said. "But we haven't addressed one vital subject: Captain Sisko. Our plans will bring dozens of new residents to the station, increase ship traffic and the work of the loading docks. We are going to be a major headache for that man."

"I mean no disrespect to the Emissary, but in his capacity as a Starfleet officer he only administers the station—our government owns it. And I can convince them to go along with this."

"I have every confidence in your abilities, but I also know the captain. Consult him at the start and we gain a valuable ally. Go over his head . . . Well, the first advice I got about life on the station was, 'Never underestimate Captain Sisko.'

"If I leave for the shuttle terminal right now, I can catch Benjamin before he goes off duty. And my presentation will be much more effective if you gentlemen will accompany me."

Fortumal blinked. "Oh. I suppose Prylar Bouchet could lead evening meditation for me."

Torren smiled, "' _Benjamin_?' Nicely dropped, Miss Devlin."

*

"Have you decided on a name for this company?" Sisko was leaning back in his chair, idly tossing his baseball from hand to hand.

"Not yet." She looked at Fortumal and Torren.

The vedek looked thoughtful. The lawyer said, "I'm afraid we haven't even discussed that yet, Your Eminence."

The captain sat upright and put the ball back on its stand. "I will back you to the hilt, on one condition."

"And that is?"

"You must hire both 'Siskons' _and_ 'Akoremites.'"

She shrugged, "I have no objection to that."

The vedek hesitated, then he said, "I won't object either; they are _all_ children of the Prophets."

Torren nodded, "If you think that is best, Eminence."

Sisko stood up, "Well then, I wish you good luck. And let me know how I can help."

They stood too and she shook Sisko's hand before they turned to leave his office.

"Oh. I do have one more question, Miss Devlin. Just a matter of idle curiosity."

She turned back, "Yes, Captain?"

"You presented this to me as a bridge between the Bajoran and Federation cultures. Let me guess: You presented it to the good vedek as an income source, and employment for his orphans. You presented it to Mr. Torren as a chance to get in on the ground floor of a new industry. Am I right?"

"And I'm about to call a special meeting of the merchants guild, and present it _there_ as an investment opportunity, more residents to patronize station shops—and an excellent reason to elect _me_ the next guild president. Yes, Captain; I have the common sense to slant my message to my audience."

Sisko smiled, "I was right. You fit right in here."

*

They stepped out of the turbolift on the main level of the Promenade. "Gentlemen, I'm afraid you've missed the last shuttle. Let's just run over to Transient Lodging and get you rooms for the night. And then . . . perhaps you could both attend my guild meeting? I'm sure your input would be _very_ welcome."

"Of course," Fortumal said, "if you think I'd be of any help."

Torren just nodded, but his smirk said clearly that he was accustomed to having his input welcomed and he knew she was using him to impress the guild.

*

The meeting was over; she was finally alone—except for Towset Lingrim.

"My nephew is a remarkable young man; he would be _such_ a good fit with your new company."

She stepped closer and spoke in a confiding tone, "Of course we still need the cooperation of your government. And I would have _much_ more influence with them as president of the Merchants Guild." She clasped his right hand between both of hers, "I hope I can count on your support."

"You certainly can. I'll speak to the other merchants too."

He bustled out and she indulged in a stretch and a yawn. She'd been running on adrenaline for the last couple of hours. But several merchants were right on the brink of investing in the company. And Mrs. Pringiwix had spent the meeting glaring at her from the back corner. The Bolian obviously shared her opinion as to just who was now a shoo-in for the guild presidency.

Well, she'd run home and freshen up, eat a quick supper—and then she'd drop in on Elim and tell him all about it over a nightcap. He'd told her to form connections on Bajor, never believing she really could. Let's just see what he thought about _this._

Miss Jabara looked in the open door, "There you are. Dr. Bashir was looking for you yesterday, but we heard you'd gone to Bajor."

"I got back just a couple of hours ago. Do you know what it's about?"

"No, just that he wanted to talk to you."

"Is he still in the infirmary?"

"I think so."

"Then I'll drop by. Thanks."

*

When she walked in, Julian was standing at the back of the room, removing a tray of instruments from the medical replicator. He heard her and turned around.

"Devlin, you're back." He set the tray down on the counter and pointed to his office, "We need to talk."

She'd assumed this was about something trivial, but his tone said otherwise.

_What's going on?_

They walked into the office and she took a seat. Bashir sat down at his desk.

"First of all, Devlin, know that I'm here for you. However you decide to handle the situation." His expression and his voice were carefully controlled.

"What situation?"

"I finally got around to entering the results of your body scan—"

She went cold. "Just tell me. What do I have?"

"No, no. I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm just trying to break—"

"Julian dear, I've had a very long day. What _are_ you talking about?"

"You're pregnant."

"What!"

"I said—"

"I heard you. That's impossible. I'm barely two years into a five-year contraceptive implant."

"Be that as it may, the scan shows an embryo maybe . . . two or three weeks along."

_He's serious. I really am pregnant._

"I'm afraid I'm just guessing at the stage of development, as I'm not familiar with . . . um . . ."

"Oh. Because it's half Cardassian. I'm so sorry, Julian. We should have told you. We were just trying to be discreet."

Bashir was shaking his head, "No, it isn't half Cardassian."

"What? Of course it is."

"No, it's not—"

This conversation was getting weirder by the second.

"Julian! I was _there_ ; I distinctly remember a Cardassian!"

"It's not half Cardassian; it's Cardassian. _Just_ Cardassian. There isn't a trace of human DNA."


	11. Chapter 11

She went through the motions of a normal evening. Showered and changed into casual clothing. Ate something. Left a message for Elim, just asking him to drop by for breakfast. Then she sat down in the big armchair—and tried to _think_.

_Pregnant._

And, inexplicably, with a wholly alien embryo. Could she carry it to term? Did she want to? Could she raise an alien child?

Oh, not just alien: _Cardassian_. And she was living on a Bajoran station.

She didn't give a damn what the Bajorans thought of her. And it would be nice to be with Elim openly, stroll down the Promenade hand-in-hand, rub their Bajoran noses in it!

She leaned back in the chair and sighed. Now she was being ridiculous. They would never be a conventional couple. And someday he _would_ return home—and she would not be going with him.

She looked around the room. One abstract print over the sideboard, sheet music on the desk, her _karategi_ tossed over a chair. Better than Elim's lonely quarters, but not by much. Couldn't becoming a new person, building a new life, include the _real_ family she'd always wanted?

_"This is not a normal place_ ; _this is a place where people change."_

Ah. There it was. She could tell herself she'd changed, that she was "Devlin" now. But she still had Ruth Devlin's past. If she ever had to . . . go away, what would happen to the child?

Julian had been so very careful to say "zygote" or "embryo" and not . . . baby.

Her baby. Not, apparently, hers genetically. But if she raised it, it would _be_ her child. A child with Garak's nature and her nurture. What would that person be? What unimaginable destiny might it have?

_I want this baby. And I don't run away from a challenge._

And then she realized there was something else she needed to do.

She called Torren Birkit's room. He blinked at her from the screen, looking attractively tousled in a Transient Lodging bathrobe.

"Oh. Miss Devlin. What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Torren, but I've changed my mind. I will furnish the start-up funds. And I will run the company."

He looked startled, tried to hide it. " _All_ the funds? We are talking about a considerable sum."

"I do have . . . an inheritance I've never touched. Rest assured, money is not a problem."

"Then I'll rewrite the contract. But you seemed so adamant about not wanting the responsibility. May I ask what changed your mind?"

"Mr. Torren, sometimes you just know it's time to start investing in the future."

And she went to bed—only to awake in the middle of the night with a truly frightening thought. The child was fully Cardassian; what if Elim thought he should raise it? What was her legal standing? Would she be considered merely a surrogate? Would he try to take the baby from her?

She just kept coming back to the same questions. What had Elim been? What was he now?

_"...a place where people change."_

Had he been talking about himself?

*

Elim walked in with a twinkle in his eyes. "A new company—in league with the Bajoran oligarchy! My dear, sometimes you amaze me."

She served them breakfast, told him all about the visit to Bajor and the fledgling company.

"And I've decided to hire a temp CEO on a one year contract. I can just shadow them while I learn the business. After that, I should be able to run the company by myself."

"Hmm. Very sensible." He poured himself a second cup of deka tea.

_He has to know. Stop stalling and tell him._

"But, Elim . . . something much more important happened yesterday."

He smiled, "Really? More important than cornering the Bajoran art market?"

"Julian showed me the results of my body scan. I'm pregnant."

" _Excuse me_?"

"Two or three weeks along. And yes, of course it's yours. And I am delighted."

"How . . . extraordinary. This is _quite_ unexpected." Then he lifted his tea cup to her, "But do let me offer my sincere congratulations."

He seemed to be taking his impending fatherhood in stride. So far, so good.

"If I might ask one question, my dear? Will you be raising it here, with all these Bajorans?"

"I will raise it here to be near _you_ , Elim, for as long as you are here." He started to speak; she held up a hand. "Someday you'll return home; you won't be taking me with you. But at least the child will know its father for— Elim?"

He looked absolutely thrilled. "You will allow _me_ to act as true father? To actually guide and teach the child?"

"I do not share most humans' sunny view of the universe. The world is dangerous. You, better than anyone I know, can teach my child how to survive in it."

He smiled and she turned her attention back to her breakfast.

"Um, Devlin dear, there is something else I'm curious about."

She looked up from her amaranth flakes.

"I was willing to take contraceptive measures. But you told me—"

"I told you not to worry about it, because I'd taken my own precautions. But apparently there is something you've neglected to tell me about Cardassian biology."

He looked puzzled—then the blood drained from his face, leaving him a sickly ash color. "Oh gods, it's a _bran'gleis_! And I'm a fool! When you humans even _remind_ me— Oh, I am _so sorry_ , my dear; this is entirely my fault." He glanced away, considering, "At home, we could conceal your condition and then . . . leave the infant in some out-district." He looked back at her, "But I know that isn't acceptable in your culture. You may abort the pregnancy."

"What's wrong with my baby! What the hell do you mean, you'd turn it out on the streets!"

"It's possible that nothing is physically . . . _wrong_ with it. It's just— Everyone—" He stopped trying and put one trembling hand over his face.

Then her baby was all right? But he was damn well going to give her an explanation. "Wait, if it's that difficult just explain it to Julian and me at the same time and get it over with."

*

Bashir looked across his desk, carefully studying Garak's face. The man most definitely did not want to be here. Devlin sat next to him—listening intently.

"So you've self-fertilized? But how is that even possible in a cross-fertilizing species?"

"With Cardassians, it _is_ possible for two of an individual's own gametes to meld together. Under certain rare circumstances, that can lead to a pregnancy."

"Certain circumstances?"

"When a Cardassian woman is ovulating, she produces a hormone that prevents _any_ self-fertilized zygote from implanting. One formed from two male sex cells can implant _only_ out-of-cycle."

"So this one implanted because humans don't produce this hormone? The odds were against it implanting in an alien surrogate in any case. Yet, it has. And it does check out as a normal embryo."

"Doctor! It is _inbred_! I have been genetically incestuous. If the female carrying it was Cardassian, I would also be branded as a rapist. Cardassian women do _not_ willingly mate out-of-cycle."

He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Haven't you ever noticed a certain _oddity_ of Cardassian culture? We tell you families mean everything to us, that several generations will live together as one household. Yet all our major cities have enclaves of wretched 'orphans,' cast out to fend for themselves. Where are _their_ extended families? Why are _they_ not cherished? Because they are 'true orphans,' with _no_ living blood relative. Or because they are defective, and were secretly discarded to protect the family's breeding status. And the one truly unspeakable defect is to be a bran'gleis _—_ to be inbred."

He leaned forward, "The _bran'gleis'sch_ were our shameful secret, unseen by the world. Until we invaded Bajor. You've seen the 'halfbreeds' we left behind. Do they all look partly Bajoran to you?"

"Now that you mention it . . . No. Most do, but not all of them."

"Because some of them _aren't_ halfbreeds. In every other race we conquered, a native woman would spontaneously miscarry a purely Cardassian zygote. We came to expect that, we grew careless. But a _Bajoran_ female might carry it to term. And the Bajorans naturally assume that those children are mixed-race, but just happen to 'look' Cardassian.

"We dread the day Bajor finally discovers the truth. That is why I _never_ engaged a Bajoran comfort woman: I just wouldn't take that risk. Oh, _I_ was above the brutal carelessness of common soldiers. _I_ would never disgrace my race in that way. And then I stupidly assumed a _human_ female would always miscarry. I just didn't realize you were _that_ similar to Bajorans."

He looked at Devlin, "My dear, two or three weeks is still _very_ early. Won't you reconsider . . . "

She turned to face him. Her expression was calm, her tone matter-of-fact. But the look in those chill gray eyes . . .

"If you try to hurt my baby, I will kill you."

An image in his mind: deep, precise cuts on Devlin's wrists. If she ever turned that cold deliberate violence outward . . .

Garak felt it too: he sat up straighter, drew his arms in front of his body. They sat frozen in place, just _looking_ at each other. A pair of cobras, poised to strike. They weren't angry: just establishing boundaries, defining territories.

Then Garak sat back, seemed to will his body to relax. "Very well, my dear. Only a fool would oppose a maternal instinct that strong. But will you grant me one favor? Will you _say_ the child is half human? Even my fellow Cardassians _might_ believe its Kardasi heritage is just very dominant. It would make my life, and the child's, much easier."

Devlin's expression had softened as Garak spoke, now she had tears in her eyes. "Of course I will. What reasonable person wouldn't?"

He took her hand, "My dear, you are the most eminently practical person I have ever known. You are a treasure, a real treasure."

Look at them! They'd been ready to kill each other, in ice cold blood, just seconds ago! They were quite insane, the pair of them. But, he was forced to admit, weirdly suited to each other.

"Er . . . Well, then. I'll encode your medical record for my eyes only. And we'll need to start you on a carefully monitored drug regimen, and a special diet. Oh—and I assume you want to know?"

Garak looked puzzled, but she understood. "Why, Doctor, it is _always_ better to _know._ "

He managed a smile, "Congratulations; it's a boy."

"Oh, Elim, I hope he looks just like you as a little boy. You must have been so cute!"

"Devlin! He was probably a perfect little terror and you know it!"

They just laughed.

*

"One Altair water for our new guild president and a gin and tonic for the good doctor."

Bashir and she took their drinks from the tray and just smiled their thanks. Even in this far corner, the crush of people in the repurposed cargo bay—and the newly renamed "DS9 Dance Band"—made conversation difficult.

"Can I get you something from the buffet, Madam President?" Quark half shouted at her.

"No thanks—I've been nibbling for the last hour."

She'd also been on her feet for an hour and her back hurt. Given the shorter Cardassian gestation period, she was almost halfway through the pregnancy; her body was starting to feel the strain. And she was getting some very speculative looks now. But she had gotten elected and safely sworn in before any Bajoran guild member noticed—and asked who the father was.

She leaned closer to Quark, "I love the decorations." She waved a hand at all the streamers, banners and balloons. "Very festive; you have a real flair for this sort of thing."

He gave her a pleased grin, then he bustled off to shoo Lt. Vilix'pran's quads away from the buffet. She hoped the little monsters weren't racing gree worms in the punch bowl again.

Sisko walked up to her, with Rom following in his wake. "Miss Devlin, congratulations." The band broke into a tango and he raised his voice, "I'm amazed to see you standing still. It seems like you're always on the go now."

"That's certainly how it feels. And thank you, Captain."

"How is Bajorcraft coming along? I hear you're about ready to launch."

"Almost. We've acquired our first merchandise and chosen a catalog template. And trained the first group of service reps. But I still need to sell my shop; I just won't have time for it now."

"Oh!" Rom said. "Could . . . could I speak to you later? I might have a buyer for you."

"Certainly."

Tammy Sanders and Morn danced past; she smiled and nodded to them. In the center of the room, Lieutenant Peterson and her wife executed a particularly showy tango dip, to scattered applause.

Elim walked in, resplendent in a formal black suit. He crossed the room to her and gave an elegant bow. "Madam President, please permit me to offer my congratulations."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Garak. I appreciate your support."

"I'm afraid I really didn't do that much." He smiled, "Perhaps I can be more helpful two years from now, when you are re-elected."

"Now, now. It is _much_ too soon to be thinking about that."

Sisko spotted Captain Yates and excused himself. Julian and Rom wandered off too. When they were alone, Elim smiled at her. " _Are_ you going to run for a second term?"

She lowered her voice, "Once I have this baby, they won't elect me dogcatcher; why bother?"

He blinked, "Dog catcher?"

She smiled, "I'll explain later." Then she put her hand on his arm. "Say in thirty minutes? My place? And bring that Deltan massage oil."

*

Dax walked into the gym, looked around and spotted her. " _There_ you are. And we have the place to ourselves, perfect. I've been wanting to talk to you, but you're always so busy now."

She lowered her arms with a sigh.

_It's Dax;_ _resistance is futile._

"It's a boy. I'm due around the middle of January. And I am _thrilled_."

"Oh, Devlin, I'm so happy for you! And what does—"

Her young Bajoran secretary walked in, wearing his usual expression of perpetual anxiety. "Oh. Miss Devlin. I'm so sorry to bother you, but there's a problem with that lead list from the Argelian Advertising Syndicate. Miss Nnaji wants you to sit in on the call to them."

"All right, Mr. Borkle, I'll handle it." She set the hand weights back on their rack. "Sorry Dax; duty calls. Maybe we can get together for lunch some day." She left Dax standing there and hurried away with Borkle.

_Poor Jadzia, there's still one vital bit of information you haven't wormed out of me. And I'll bet you're just kicking yourself!_

*

She planned her recruiting pitch as she navigated the noontime crowd on the Promenade. Her company had a lot of customers on Earth and humans really _liked_ Bajor. So she needed to make her catalog ads _more Bajoran_. With _exactly_ the right spokesperson, she'd have a start on that. She would not say that she was punching up the "poor little Bajor" angle—or that using sex appeal was a ploy as old as advertising itself.

She let a cadre of wide-eyed midshipmen go past her in their rush to the replimat, got in line, reached one of the replicators and looked at the menu. Today's featured item was "An Authentic Turkey Dinner with All the Fixin's." She shuddered at the idea of replicated "fixin's."

"One club sandwich; hold the lettuce. One bottle of carbonated moba juice." The tray sparkled into existence. She picked it up, turned around—and bumped into someone.

"Oh! I'm sorry— Keiko! When did you get back?"

"Just this morning. We wrapped up the survey—" She glanced down, "Devlin, you're pregnant!"

She grinned, "Yes, I noticed that too."

"But that's wonderful!"

She saw Leeta looking around the replimat for her. "Sorry, Keiko, can't chat right now—I've got some serious poaching to do."

*

"I still say celebrating the birth of a convicted criminal is peculiar." He hung the red glass ball on one of the lower branches. "Sedition, wasn't it?" He stepped back, "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, this holiday is wonderful for business."

Bashir looked amused, "Garak! Let's _try_ to get into the spirit of the thing, shall we?"

He turned to Devlin, "There you go; how does it look now?"

She regarded the infirmary Christmas tree with a critical eye. "It still needs something." She glanced into the box next to her chair. "Julian, are there any more ornaments?"

"I don't think so, but I'll check the storeroom."

She waited until Bashir left the room, then she turned to him with a laugh. "Now stop teasing—"

Quark burst into the infirmary—flushed crimson, eyes ablaze. "Ha! I knew you'd be hiding here!"

He stomped over to Devlin, folded his arms and glared down at her. "How could you _do_ this to me! Oh, it wasn't enough to lure away my best dabo girl! No! You had to air _my family's_ mildewed laundry in front of the whole station!"

"Your best dabo girl? I'll tell Leeta you said that; she'll be very flattered."

"Did you even think to consult me? Oh, no! Of course not!"

Devlin was getting tired of this; he could see it in her carefully neutral expression.

"Mr. Quark, I'm sorry if I've upset—" She widened her eyes and pretended to struggle to her feet. Then she put a hand on her swollen belly. "Oh! The—the _baby_!" She gave a theatrical groan.

_You little reprobate! And you call_ me _tricky?_ He shot a glance at Quark: was it working?

The Ferengi had gone pale, "Oh, no! I didn't mean to— Help! Somebody do something!"

Julian popped back in just as Nurse Jabara rushed in from the surgical suite. Jabara put a protective arm around Devlin. Bashir ran a medical tricorder over her. And Quark started backing out of the infirmary. What delicious mayhem! And she deserved every minute of it.

Devlin pushed Bashir's arm away, "No, no. I'm fine, really."

"You should be ashamed," Jabara snapped at Quark. "Yelling at a pregnant woman! _So help me_ , if you've hurt Miss Devlin, or Dr. Bashir's baby . . ."

_What?_

"Look, I'm sorry. She says she's fine, right?" Quark looked at Bashir with genuine contrition on his face, "I wouldn't hurt your baby for all the latinum in the world." Then he backed out of the infirmary and disappeared.

Jabara patted Devlin's arm, "Now just relax, dear. I'll . . . I'll get you a nice cup of Tarkalean tea from the replimat." She hurried out of the infirmary.

Bashir looked stunned. " _My_ baby? Devlin, have you been telling people that?"

"No, I most certainly have not."

"Then what have you been telling them? You've been visibly pregnant for almost a month. Don't tell me no one's asked who the father is."

"Well, no one has! It seemed odd . . . Oh, no! _Dax_!"

"Dax?"

"Elim was leaving these romantic gifts at the cutlery shop. Dax was trying to match me up with _you,_ and she thought she'd succeeded. I kept telling her they weren't from you—but I guess I never convinced her. Or Keiko, or Margo Berkuta. And by now, the gossip has spread through the station. Julian, _everyone_ must think you're the father."

She paused for a second, thinking.

"I can talk to Dax and try to quell the rumors, but you should probably tell Jabara right away. Startling her in the delivery room sounds like a very bad idea."


	12. Chapter 12

"Please join me in welcoming Deep Space Nine's newest inhabitant."

Sisko raised his glass to the tiny Ferengi woman who stood by his side, dressed in yards and yards of chartreuse Denebian silk. "To Ishka."

"To Ishka," the crowd toasted.

Devlin lifted her glass of apple juice, "And may 'Ishka's Fine Collectibles and Personal Loans' bring you the same profit and happiness this little shop brought me."

"Let it bring me the profit and the happiness will take care of itself." She maneuvered her glass past her elaborate starched lace ruff and took a drink.

Sisko chatted with Ishka for a few minutes, then excused himself and left. The assorted merchants, military personnel and travelers had already drifted off to look into the display cases and sample the canapes from the Vulcan buffet.

"You . . . you see, Moogie," Rom said, "I, I told you everyone would come to welcome you."

"Everyone but your brother, apparently."

"Don't you worry about Quark; _he'll_ come around." He grinned, "The trick is to do _exactly_ as you please and let _him_ adjust to _you_."

"Oh! This place has been _good_ for you!" Ishka took her son's arm, "Now why don't you introduce me to some of these nice potential customers."

She drew back against the wall to let them pass. Ishka's skirts were held out by some sort of hoop or farthingale. The Ferengi woman was not just clothed, but _defiantly_ clothed. She was surely destined to be Elim's dream customer.

Dax appeared out of the crowd and whispered, "I tried to get Quark to come, but he's too busy having an attack of the vapors. His very own _mother,_ doing business, in public, wearing _clothing_!"

"Jadzia, I need your help with a personal matter. Can we speak _privately_?"

Dax's eyes lit up with curiosity, "I'm free for the next hour." She set her drink down on a case of Romulan boot knives, "Let's go to my place."

*

She carefully lowered herself onto Dax's couch. "It feels so good just to get off my feet."

"Oh, I remember!" Jadzia sat down across from her.

"Well. Dax. Why hasn't anyone asked me who the father is?"

She blinked. "Why would we? We see you with Julian every day."

_You just see . . . Julian and me? Oh. I guess you would._

"And we're all wondering why you've never mentioned his being the father, why he never talks about the baby. We can tell _something_ is wrong. But you're so busy, it's impossible to get you alone."

"Dax, I . . . want you to visualize something. All right?"

Dax nodded.

"Close your eyes. Now imagine you're walking down the Promenade. In the replimat you see those nice young humans: Julian and Devlin. Describe the scene to me."

Dax shrugged, "I see Devlin and Julian and . . . the table? The food? The drinks?"

"Go on."

"The . . . chairs? The other customers? The replicators? That ugly potted vine? What else is _in_ the replimat? Oh, Garak usually eats lunch with you, should I count him?"

She started to laugh, "Yes, I think we'll count him. He is there too. Every day."

"Devlin, you aren't making the least bit—" Her eyes popped wide open. " _Garak_? I mean . . . you _and_ Garak?"

"Every chance we get—like crazed voles."

Jadzia looked stunned.

"And yes, I know I'm being foolish. I know he's an ex-spy. And a congenital liar. And a cold blooded killer. But he's just so . . . so . . ."

Dax said it for her, "So cuddly?"

"You see it too?"

"Occasionally." She leaned forward, "How long has this been going on? All that romantic poetry was from _Garak_? How is Julian taking all this? What does Garak think about the baby? Is he good in bed?"

"Dax!"

"Well, is he?"

Devlin just—smiled.

" _Really_?"

"Yes, really. But I need your advice. It never occurred to me that people thought Julian was sleeping with me. Do they think Yolanda would put up with that? Well, they'll know the truth once they see the baby. And I might not carry it to term."

"Because it's a hybrid?"

"Yes. That's right. Now, I know most of the Bajorans here will turn on me when the child is born. I can handle that. But I should tell people like Leeta and Aroya now. You've known them longer than I have. How would _you_ tell them?"

"Hmm. This _is_ going to take careful planning. Let me think it over."

***

Sleep was impossible. He sat up in bed and whispered the nightlight on. Then he looked at the alien woman dozing so peacefully next to him. Once again, he'd made his life more complicated. He should have taken the responsibility for contraception. Failing that, he should have put a fast acting poison in her food at the first opportunity. Or he could have just given her an abortifacient. But every time he thought of forcing an end to the shameful pregnancy, he remembered the sight of her with the O'Brien infant. The way she held it and smiled at it. And she wanted this child so much.

None of this would have happened if he'd followed Dax's lead and pushed Bashir toward Devlin. There was some hidden core of darkness and pain in her. Bashir's protective instincts reacted to it, just as they reacted to his own darkness. And if Julian had turned that boyish charm on her, she would have responded. Julian Bashir had a way of making wounded people fall in love with him.

If only he'd seen all that before— _this_. If anyone ever realized the child was _not_ Devlin's . . . Bad enough to be a political exile, but to be known as a traitor to the very gene pool? He thought of seeing that repugnance in another Cardassian's eyes and shuddered.

He glanced down at Devlin's abdomen. The fetus was restless; he could see it moving. Curious, he touched her, felt the baby move under his hand.

_Poor child—you must live your whole life as a lie._

He almost laughed aloud. Of course his child would be a lie: that's what he created best.

_*_

Five Bajoran girls in Capitol City uniforms passed her in the hall, tossing a _tragol_ ball back and forth as they walked. She smiled and nodded at them. Not bad—but she still thought her Bajorcraft Battlers would win tonight.

There was the soft whooshing sound of an antigrav cart behind her—and the unmistakable odor of hot hasperat. She looked back and saw the girls surround the cart. The young Bajoran man pushing it grinned and moved it to the side of the corridor, out of the flow of passersby.

Foot traffic in the corridors had increased lately, even here in Transient Lodging. All the new residents were making this old station a livelier place.

Gilora must have barely arrived when she invited her over for this Kardasi lesson. But it was good timing: she actually had an idle hour before her counseling session. She grimaced at that thought; the tuba was never meant to be played by the excessively pregnant. She wondered what Belor and Rejal's reaction would be to the pregnancy. Dr. Belor had surely deduced her relationship to "Lord Garak." But Gilora was going to be surprised.

She reached the room, touched the signal plate. The door opened and Gilora called out, "Come in."

She stepped into the room.

"SURPRISE!"

Oh, no! Blue party streamers. Blue balloons. In front of the couch that faced the door: a low table with a blue tablecloth, a cake with blue icing, a bowl of blue punch and packages wrapped in blue paper. To the left of the table stood Yolanda Salazar, looking . . . perky. To the right—Dax, of course! Dr. Belor and Gilora sat stiffly on chairs on the left hand side of the room. On the right were Leeta, Aroya and—Major Kira? On the couch in the middle, Keiko and Margo formed a human buffer zone.

_Does Dax expect me to tell them all at once? I'll start a riot!_

"Oh, you shouldn't have!"

Dax led her to the couch and seated her between Keiko and Margo. "Please don't be mad," she whispered, "this seemed like the best way."

"Now, Yolanda knows all about this human custom, so we'll just turn the proceedings over to her."

"Oh, _Devlin_!" Yolanda gushed. "We're just so _happy_ for you and Mr. Garak!"

_They know! Dax just went ahead and told them all!_

Leeta and Aroya seemed to be taking it in stride. Kira looked . . . guarded.

Salazar was in her element, " _Well_ ," she burbled on, "first let's get everyone a slice of this _scrumptious_ cake! Devlin, would you like to cut the first piece?" She handed her a knife.

She plastered a smile on her face and cut a line straight across the cake, neatly disemboweling a white fondant teddy bear. Dax was recording it all with a holo-camera.

"Now if two of you ladies can help me serve the _refreshments_? And then we'll watch _Devlin_ open the _presents_!"

Leeta leaped up and started cutting the cake. Gilora ladled out cups of cyanide-blue punch. Everyone was being excruciatingly civilized. That did not mean they approved of _her—_ they were doing this for Dax.

Salazar produced a paper plate with an elastic band fastened across it. "Just hold still, Devlin." She put the plate on her head, using the elastic as a chin strap. "Now as you take off each _bow_ , we'll stick it on your _hat_ ; then you'll have the cutest little _keepsake_!"

She clasped her hands together, "Oh, Yolanda, that is so"— _appallingly kitschy_ —"sweet _._ "

The first gift was a box of isolinear rods. Dr. Belor spoke up, "Those are Moral Instruction Tales for Youth." Keiko made a face and Belor bristled, "I'm afraid they _are_ rather mild: no shepherd boys being devoured by _wolves_ or anything."

"I'm sure the baby will love them," she said quickly. "Thank you."

"I don't have a gift yet," Gilora said. "I'd like to embroider a traditional name banner. If you've selected a name?"

"That would be very nice. The baby's name is Nicky ZerKaiten."

Dr. Belor started at the name "ZerKaiten." The others looked puzzled.

"ZerKaiten?" asked Dax. "Not Devlin or Garak?"

"I think my son should have his _own_ name. And it is . . . from Garak's family." In fact, that was his actual surname.

Yolanda started to hand her another present. Kira jumped up and took a package from the table. "Look, I'm not sure how I feel about this. But I thought, the baby might get cold. I mean, the temperature here isn't right— I have to go. Here." She thrust the package into her hands and left.

In the sudden uncomfortable silence, she unwrapped the gift. It was a beautiful little quilt. She almost felt like crying; how silly.

She opened the other presents. Leeta had brought a big rag doll with an endearing lopsided smile. There was a butterfly crib mobile from Margo. A recording of children's songs on tuba from Yolanda. A set of pint-sized gardening tools from Keiko. And a shape sorting toy from Aroya. With each gift another bow was added to her "hat." The two Cardassians observed this exotic alien ritual with wide-eyed fascination. And Dax gleefully kept recording.

_Jadzia, I'll get you for this if it's the last thing I ever do!_ She looked at the pile of baby presents. _And I am not going to get all stupid and weepy!_

Dax pulled a plush boupa cub from behind the couch, "This is from me. And Benjamin has given you access to his park holoprogram. He took Jake there when he was little. It has a pond. And ducks. Benjamin says watching ducks is very relaxing."

The door chime sounded. Gilora called out, "Come in," and Julian popped his head in the door.

"I hate to break up the festivities, ladies, but Devlin is late for an appointment."

"I'm sorry, I have to go now." She yanked off the "hat," endured a round of hugs, scooped up the gifts and escaped.

A few steps down the corridor, Julian stopped and held out a small flat package.

"Oh no, you're in on this too?"

He grinned, "But I thought you'd want to open this one in private."

She set the other gifts on the floor, took the package, tore off the wrapping paper and found an engraved certificate. Framed, very official looking:

_I do hereby admit that Miss Ruth Devlin_ _is about as sane as_ _I am going to get her._ It was signed, _Julian S. Bashir, M.D._

"No more counseling sessions. But if you ever need a _friend_ to talk to, my door is always open."

Oh shit, that did it. She turned away and wiped the tears off with the heel of her hand. "You don't fool me, Julian Bashir. You just finally cracked under all that tuba music."

*

"I don't give a damn _what_ you and Devlin agreed to, Garak! Come to the infirmary _now_!"

"Julian! I told you not to call—" A contraction gripped her like a vise tightening around her middle.

It finally let go. Jabara was adjusting the birthing chair and telling her to breathe. Medtech Blenheim was setting up a warming cot for the baby.

Julian's voice was much calmer now, "Garak, do I have to shoot you again?"

What the hell did that— _No_ , not another one already!

Pain. Strong. Stronger than her.

This one finally stopped.

She'd been at Sisko's New Year's party, singing _Auld Lang Syne_ , when the first one hit. Then everything happened so fast. She hurt, she was scared—and she had _not_ pictured herself giving birth with an evening gown hiked up around her hips.

Julian raised his voice slightly, "Bashir to Ops. Medical emergency. Beam the inhabitant of Chamber 901, Habitat Level H-3, to the infirmary."

Another one! This time, the pain didn't stop. It would never stop.

A cool hand, touching her face. A voice, utterly calm, " _Devlin_. Look at me." She turned her head toward that voice, stared into dangerous blue eyes.

"You want to push now. You want to bear down." How did such a soft voice cut through this pain? Impossible to ignore it. Impossible to disobey it.

"Good. Good. Relax now. Breathe. Push again. _Harder_. Harder _now_."

Suddenly—the pain was gone. Julian was snapping orders. She heard an enraged, quavering wail.

"Oh, look Devlin!" Bashir cried. " _Look_!"

She looked down. Julian sat on the low stool in front of the birthing chair, holding a Cardassian baby wrapped in a blood-stained towel.

She started to say something to Elim.

He was gone.

"What do you think, Devlin?" Bashir's voice was a little anxious. "Isn't . . . isn't he beautiful?"

She looked back at the baby and Julian put him into her arms. He was a skinny little thing, not filled out yet. His soft gray skin and delicate scales were flushed red from his screaming. He didn't have one bit of hair on his bony little head. He was the most beautiful baby in the whole world.

*

Garak enjoyed the early morning walk to his shop: before the hubbub of the Promenade, the demands of customers. While the station was quiet and peaceful—and he could _think_..

Felgar's reports on Professor Reyvoe continued to be rather vague—the old man never could write a coherent field report—but reassuring. Apparently the professor was safe and well, and still had no idea that he was the king of Cardassia.

More importantly, neither did the current power structure. Whoever stashed Reyvoe away knew his true identity, assuming they'd survived the last few decades and the last coup. The only other ones privy to the secret were his own people on Cardassia. Not even his . . . _ally_ knew the heir's identity or location, only the bare fact that he existed.

But that ally was getting restless, demanding that they move more swiftly. When what was called for was greater caution, delicate maneuvering. Perhaps it was time to introduce his _other_ bargaining chip, show his impatient ally the treasure he was saving for _just_ the right moment.

How much easier this would be if he could just leave this cursed station, handle everything personally. His entrapment here galled him. Tain was dead, the Order destroyed—but the decree of exile still remained in force. Oh well, a few more years as a mild, inconspicuous—

Balloons. A great bunch of blue balloons, tied to the handrail of the steps down to his shop. A huge banner hung over his doorway:

IT'S A BOY!!!

He pulled up short in front of the shop and just stared. Morn passed him on his way to Quark's, doubled back, threw his arms around him and awkwardly patted his back. Then he released him without a word and continued on his way.

From somewhere nearby came a quickly stifled perky giggle—that sounded a great deal like the doctor's annoying girlfriend. It occurred to him that any number of people might be concealed about the Promenade, watching his reaction. It was a bit embarrassing, but he was also touched by the gesture. And, against all reason, vaguely proud of this proof of continued virility.

The one thing he certainly _didn't_ feel was _inconspicuous._

*

Julian lowered the padd and stared at her. "Please tell me you aren't actually going to _name_ him this."

Sisko carefully handed Nicky back to her and turned to Bashir. "What is the problem, Doctor? Everyone knows his name is 'Nicky ZerKaiten.' I thought she and Garak had agreed on that."

Elim walked into the infirmary, "What have I agreed to?"

Bashir held up the padd, " _This_ is the form she filled out for the United Earth birth registry." He read from it, " _Niccolo Machiavelli Devlin ZerKaiten._ "

"Machiavelli?" said Sisko.

"Oh, my dear—my _favorite_ human philosopher. Thank you."

"Actually," Sisko mused aloud, "it does rather fit the family."

"It might," she said, "if Garak and I _were_ a family."

"Aren't you?" asked Julian.

"My son and I are a family. And—"

"And," Elim finished, "I am _delighted_ to be the child's father, and a friend of the family. But Miss Devlin and I shall continue to maintain two separate households."

Bashir shrugged, "Well, if that's what you're comfortable with." He dragged the conversation back to the original subject, "But do you really want to saddle Nicky with that name?"

Sisko silenced him with a look: clearly, he thought his CMO was a busybody.

"My dear, your things have been moved to the larger quarters and the child's bedroom is furnished. So may I escort Miss Devlin, and Master Niccolo Machiavelli Devlin ZerKaiten, to their new home?"

As they walked out, Sisko was insisting, "Sounds like a DS9 name to me."


	13. Chapter 13

"You have a self-defense class today? But you gave birth only two weeks ago." Elim shot a nervous glance at Nicky, asleep in his infant seat on the chair between them.

"Well, maybe I'll just watch this time."

He'd been back to her new quarters only once: held the baby as if he expected him to explode, made stilted small talk for ten minutes, handed Nicky back to her and bolted from the room. So today she'd joined him and Julian for lunch—and brought the baby with her.

"I thought you planned to curtail most of your activities until the nanny arrived. Who have you engaged to mind the child?"

She fixed him with a steady stare. Then, she smiled.

Julian, no dummy, put down his fork and stood up. "Well, must be going. Afternoon off you know; kayaking the Pacuare with Miles." He hurried out of the replimat and headed for Quark's.

She took a deep breath and rose from the table, "Elim dear, _do_ be an angel and watch Nicky while I run to my class. Everything you'll need is in his bag, and it's only for an hour."

"My dear Devlin! You can't seriously expect me to"—

She walked away, leaving the baby—and one spluttering, flabbergasted master spy. She kept walking until she passed out of Elim's sight around the curve of the corridor. Then she ducked into a shop's delivery entrance, leaned against the locked door, wrapped her arms around herself and stood there trembling.

Elim had shown no animosity toward the baby. But she remembered all too well the things he'd said about the bran'gleis'sch. Nicky was an embarrassment and a danger to his only biological parent.

Garak had promised he wouldn't hurt her baby.

Garak lied all the time.

Her Elim would _not_ harm a helpless little baby! He would never bond with his child if he was never _with_ him. This had seemed like such a clever idea. Now—she just wanted her baby back! She started to cry. But she made herself stay right where she was.

*

When she didn't find them in the replimat she went on to the tailor shop. There was no one in the front, but she thought she heard someone in the workroom. As she walked back, she could make out Elim's voice, speaking Kardasi. She stopped near the open door.

He was speaking slowly, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. "This fabric is _red_." There was a pause. "This cup is _red_." A pause. "This fruit is _red_."

Relief flooded through her. In his own fashion, Elim had found a way to relate to his son.

She walked in. Nicky was propped up in his carry-seat on the couch. An old shipping container sat in front of the couch, with several small objects sitting on its lid.

Elim was holding up a red satin thong and declaiming, with great seriousness, "This . . . er . . . garment, is—"

"Is _red_ ," she finished for him in passable Kardasi.

He looked startled—and just a bit embarrassed. "Oh. Devlin. I was just . . . um . . ."

"I know, establishing neural pathways for language skills. And I'm glad you're speaking Kardasi to him; being bilingual is always an advantage."

Looking pleased, Elim scooped up the visual aids and dropped them on the couch, then he shoved the shipping container to the far end of it.

"Well, I'll take him off your hands now. Thanks for watching him on such short notice."

"Yes. _Very_ short notice."

"And speaking of giving notice"—she hooked the thong with one finger and twirled it—"by next week, I just _might_ be persuaded to model this."

"You are _not_ distracting me from the subject at hand."

"Which is?"

"Your surprising mastery of the sneak attack."

"Why, Elim, you say the sweetest things."

"Hmm!"

She grinned, put down the thong and picked up the infant seat.

"You may continue to leave him with me during your class. I believe I can handle _that_ much domesticity."

"Thank you, Elim."

"I didn't think you would trust me with the child. Thank _you._ "

*

"And finally, the January figures still show our fine arts line as our weakest seller." Bajorcraft's temp CEO leaned forward and laced her delicate ebony fingers together on the conference table. "We might want to drop that line and concentrate on native crafts."

Devlin thought about it. "It may come to that, Miss Nnaji. But for now we'll just consign those pieces to an auction house." She turned to Fortumal, "Vedek, how is the recruiting going at your orphanages?"

"Oh, many of the older boys and girls are interested in working for us. Even—" He gave a tiny cough. "Well, perhaps that can wait until the next meeting."

"Please speak whenever _you_ feel it is appropriate, Your Grace." She looked at the comm screen on the wall, "And what do you have to add, Mr. Torren?"

Torren Birkit's attitude toward her since Nicky's birth made the vacuum of space seem warm by comparison. Last month he'd made an excuse not to attend their mid-January/early- _Frinklau_ executive meeting. His participation through vid-conferencing this month seemed like a practical compromise.

His report was brusque. Their Federation legal counsel had cleared up the tariff matter. And there were rumors the Artisans D'Jarra would demand a favored nations clause in their next contract.

"Then they think the Artisan's Guild has a better deal. Maybe we can play the unions against each other. Excellent work, Mr. Torren. Please see what else you can learn."

"Yes."

"Is that all for today, Mr. Torren?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think that wraps up—"

"No," Fortumal said, "I should ask about this now."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"One of the older adolescents at our North Province Home approached me last week to ask if he would be permitted to take the Bajorcraft employment exam. You see, there are certain unfortunate children, who have been placed with us, over the years . . ."

"Is the young man of mixed race, Your Grace?"

"Oh, oh yes. Yes, he is. The young person is of mixed heritage: Bajoran and Cardassian."

"Well, of course he can take the exam. Your Grace, I hope your mixed-race orphans haven't been discouraged from applying."

"Oh, oh no. This is just the first time one of them has _asked_. But if you don't think there will be a problem—"

"Of course there will be a problem," Torren snapped. Then he clamped his lips together.

"Go on, Mr. Torren. I hired the best corporate lawyer in town; I'd be a fool not to listen to him."

"I must advise against this. Integrating 'Akoremite' Bajorans into our workforce is hard enough. We don't need to deal with . . . mixed-bloods too."

"Why, Mr. Torren, surely you aren't suggesting that anyone in _this_ company is a _bigot._ " She could see his jaw clench. "And may I remind you: most of our customers are on Earth. Discriminatory hiring practices would hurt us severely with that customer base."

"Have it your way then." He cut the connection; his image was replaced by the Bajoran comm logo.

"Well, I think we can wrap up. Your Grace, Millicent has discovered a marvelous new Bularian tearoom on the Promenade. Please allow us to take you to lunch."

"Oh, oh yes. That would be very nice. Thank you."

And she'd find some excuse to walk the long way around. The more Bajorans who saw her with a vedek, the better.

*

"Computer, lock office door." Bashir set his coffee cup on the desk, took his seat and gave the code to open Nicky's file. Several members of his staff, including Miss Jabara—especially Miss Jabara—had asked why this particular file was "doctor's eyes only." And each time he'd answered that Garak had requested it—and followed that with the single word "Cardassians!" and a knowing roll of his eyes. Given their reputation for paranoia, and the fact that Garak's own file was sealed, that was enough of an explanation.

He settled in to study the two-month exam readouts again, alert to any anomaly. The baby still presented as perfectly healthy. But his nearest genetic equivalent would be a child born to two siblings. It was certainly possible that some good trait would be amplified. But, judging by the few known human examples, it was much more likely that something harmful would be.

There must be a Cardassian database that could tell him more—but he didn't dare look for it. He had tapped into some texts on standard childhood maturation. That shouldn't raise much of a red flag: he assumed the Cardassians already knew that Garak's "mixed-breed" child was his patient. But any attempt to find information specifically about the bran'gleis would be an instant tip-off to whoever was guarding it.

*

Garak stepped into Quark's and looked around. The place was crowded tonight, the mood festive. He suspected that stemmed more from the half-price sale on Irish whiskey than from any desire to honor this "Saint Patrick" person, whoever he was. He'd yet to be given a satisfactory explanation as to just what the man had _done_ to merit all this jocularity. O'Brien seemed to find something humorous in his even asking.

Ah, there she was. Devlin was standing at the bar, carrying Niccolo in his infant seat. And she was telling Quark—with great conviction—that the Irish didn't know how to throw a St. Patrick's Day party. It took, she was insisting, an _Irish-American_ to do it right. He didn't get the distinction, himself. But O'Brien and Bashir were laughing and O'Brien told Quark to go ahead then and . . . _make the beer green_? Had he heard that right?

He raised his arm and waved the little cardigan like a signal flag. Devlin spotted it and wound her way through the crowd to him. She'd gotten her figure back and the new forest green dress showed off her body to perfection.

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "Sorry to rush you like that; Quark just now thought of this."

"I'm afraid it's only replicated, but it is green." He carefully wrestled the sweater onto the baby.

"May I have your attention, please." Quark stood in front of the bar, looking terribly self-important. "We are about to initiate a DS9 St. Patrick's Day tradition. Will all the _Irish_ people present please come up to the bar for your group holophoto."

Devlin took Nicky out of the infant seat and headed back to Quark. He saw an empty chair next to Morn, slid into it and set the seat down on the bar.

Mrs. O'Brien walked in, leading her daughter by the hand and carrying the O'Brien toddler. A small group gathered around Quark: Devlin and Nicky, the O'Briens, Lieutenant Wonga, Ensign Coatney, Chief Johnson, Mr. Cachagualpa-Duffy from the Traveler's Aid office and Miss O'Dowd, the Transient Lodgings manager.

Quark looked at Nicky, "Um, Devlin, I'm not sure . . ."

She drew herself up, "Mr. Quark! This child is a _Devlin_ , a direct descendant of Brian Boru!"

"That's _right_ ," O'Brien said. "And _no one_ is finer than a descendant of Irish kings"—

His wife was glaring at him.

—"er, except, of course, the descendants of the samurai."

Keiko smiled, handed Kirayoshi to him and stepped back out of the way

.

How did that saying go? " _Humans make the best diplomats; if they can get along with each other they can get along with anyone."_

"Fine," said Quark. "If you say he's Irish, he's Irish." He started to bustle around: posing and re-posing the group and taking holophotos.

All that business about the baby: was Devlin just embellishing their little story, establishing the child as half human? Or was she somehow deluding herself that the baby was hers? What did she _see_ when she looked at Nicky?

And what would another Cardassian see? Did the child show any visible sign of his . . . unnaturalness? He didn't think so, but he'd never paid any attention to babies; he had no basis of comparison.

The photo session concluded. Devlin returned and tucked the baby back into his infant seat. Then she said softly, "Why don't you take Nicky home and put him to bed—and make yourself comfortable in mine." She gave him a kiss. "I can always leave the party early."

"Oh, I may stay here for a bit. But I will consider your advice."

She grinned and sauntered back to O'Brien and Bashir. She knew damn well how tempting she looked tonight.

Across the room, tables had been pushed back against the wall to leave an open space and now O'Brien was trying to get a dance started, without much success. He finally dubbed Bashir an honorary Irishman, paired him with Devlin and ordered them to dance. At the chief's signal, Miss Salazar and the "DS9 Ceili Band" struck up a thumping tune. Laughing, Bashir took Devlin in his arms and whirled her about.

Oh, what beautiful young bodies they had, so slender and graceful. And they seemed to be having a marvelous time. Perhaps he should feel jealous. But it seemed excessive to be jealous of both of them, simultaneously.

Other people were joining in now. Mike Wonga tapped Julian on the shoulder, took his place and whisked Devlin away. Bashir looked around for another partner.

Lieutenant Berkuta, sitting further down the bar, shot one wistful glance at Julian, then quickly turned away and started a sprightly conversation with Miss O'Dowd.

_Oh ho!_ He gave a deep, heartfelt sigh. _Get in line, my dear._

Quark walked over and set a mug in front of him. "Here, drink a toast to good old Saint Paddy, compliments of Devlin." He bustled on to the next customer.

Ah, O'Brien _had_ said, "Make the beer green." He took a sip. At least it tasted like normal beer. Not his favorite beverage, but not as ghastly as their "soft" drinks.

He lifted the mug to the baby, "Well, here's to _you_ then, 'descendant of Irish kings.'"

Nicky looked up at him and then—he smiled. That beautiful, all-accepting, sunshine baby smile. Impossible to resist that, quite impossible.

He set the beer down and picked up the baby.

_Now you think that any time you smile at me I'll pick you up_. _Think you can count on that, do you?_

An old, old sadness stirred in him.

_Oh, don't count on me. I'll betray anyone who loves me. It's my nature._


	14. Chapter 14

Elim shifted in his chair and tried again to tug the borrowed bathrobe closed. Pink was just not his color. She should buy him a robe to keep here.

"Now try this." She picked up a shrimp with her chopsticks and fed it to him.

He chewed and swallowed, looking properly thoughtful. "Hmm, very tasty. But perhaps I should eat more rice—for the carbohydrates. I'm afraid this evening's . . . _activities_ have seriously depleted my energy stores." He widened his eyes, " _Humans_!"

"Really, Elim, I'm surprised you didn't find other human lovers long before you met me. Given our reputation for . . . broad-mindedness."

"As in, 'Go ask a human; they'll mate with anything?'"

She laughed. "So why didn't you?"

"Alas, my only other courtship of a human was notably and completely unsuccessful."

She dropped the chopsticks, stunned. "There was never _anything_? Julian just . . . _turned you down_?"

"Years ago, my dear." He assumed an earnest expression and an upper-crust accent, "'I am flattered, Garak, and tempted. But I am also a Starfleet officer with _some_ career ambition and _you_ are a Cardassian spy.'

"Oh, he was very kind about it, assured me it wasn't 'personal.' Our Julian is a gentleman: first, last and always. And at least he would still flirt with me, until—" He broke off abruptly, reached for a serving dish, "Would you care for some Mongolian Beef?"

She held out her plate and tactfully dropped the subject.

Poor Elim. What hopes he must have had.

*

Bashir hurried into the conference room, nodded at the captain and took the last empty seat.

"The Detapa Council—" Sisko began without preamble.

"Needs our help with something," Dax said in a tone of disgusted certainty. "Again." Around the table, each staff member mirrored her sour expression.

"A Galor-class battle cruiser has vanished. On March nineteenth, almost three weeks ago, the _Avenger_ left Cardassia Prime, en route to one of their colonies. Two days into the voyage the ship disappeared. The council kept the disappearance under wraps and searched the area of its last known location. There was no debris, no alien energy signature, no sign of a battle. They have now told Starfleet about the missing ship—because they want us to send the _Defiant_ out to look for it."

"That's ridiculous," Kira said. "We're already dealing with the Maquis, Cardassian and Klingon renegades, every mercenary and pirate in the sector. Not to mention the Dominion! _All_ of that, with one ship and a couple of runabouts. And now the Cardassians want us to nursemaid their fleet? Let them find their own damn ship!"

"I share your sentiments, Major. But the Federation recognizes and backs the Detapa Council and we have standing orders to help them whenever possible. I have no intention of sending the _Defiant_ away from this station for any extended time; but we must investigate."

"Then to begin," Worf said, "we must ask ourselves who is most likely to hijack a Cardassian ship."

"The Klingons?" asked O'Brien.

"I think not. No sign of a battle, no boasting of the capture? No, if my people had seized the _Avenger_ we would have heard of it before now."

"I agree," said Sisko. "This is not the Klingon's style. And the Cardassian/Klingon hostilities have been in a state of 'cold war' for years. An incident like this would be a deliberate provocation on the part of the Klingon government, an attempt to resume full scale war. And yet, as you point out Mr. Worf, they have not claimed responsibility."

"Could it be the Dominion?" Bashir asked. "Could they capture a large, heavily-armed warship, apparently without firing a shot?"

Odo looked down the table at him, "Yes, Doctor. I think they could."

"They could," Sisko said. "But what would be the point? A vanished ship isn't . . . subtle. It's not like sneaking in a ringer for an individual here and there. The ship and its complement couldn't just show up again and resume their normal routine. The crew, and the ship, would be screened to be sure they weren't really shape-shifters. No, I don't think the Founders did this."

*

She thought that nothing could match the well-ordered tranquility of this Trafalgar Square on a bright April morning. Flower carts of jonquils and lilies, a bobby flirting with a pretty nursemaid, little girls in pastel frocks playing hopscotch. Nelson was on his column, the plump over-fed pigeons were everywhere and all was right with the world.

She crossed the pavement to the bench where Nicky's nanny sat. As always, the woman's posture was erect, her long-skirted suit pristinely unwrinkled. With her left hand she grasped the parrot-head handle of her furled umbrella and with her right she kept a firm grip on the baby's perambulator.

"Ah, Miss Devlin. Baby was awake for one hour and four minutes. He played with his hanging activity toy and several people stopped to speak to him. Then I fed him his bottle and he fell asleep. He has slept for the last fifty-one minutes."

"Thank you, Nanny. My meeting is over; Nicky can spend the rest of the day in my office." She picked up the baby and kissed the top of his head, ruffling the soft black hair that had, finally, started to grow on his sweet little head.

The nanny stood up and tucked her umbrella under her arm, "In that case, madam, I will take my afternoon off now. In compliance with the Child Welfare Code: I remind you that this program is for entertainment purposes only and is not recommended for full-time child care. In the event of excessive use, it shall cease to function after—"

"Computer, pause program." The scene froze.

She sighed. "Computer, I've listened to this for two months now. Can you at least reword it so it doesn't clash so with the . . . the ambiance?"

"Request acknowledged." There was a slight pause. "Changes completed. Shall I resume?"

"Yes."

The scene reanimated. "And remember: I shall stay only until the wind changes."

"Perfect! Computer, end program. Exit." The London of 1934 disappeared. She left the barren holosuite, walked along a featureless corridor and carried Nicky down the stairs to the bar.

*

"I wish you wouldn't do this," Borkle whispered. "You know half of them will quit. Once they see that . . . um . . ."

"That I sleep with Cardassians," she whispered back. She patted her hair into place, straightened the crisp white collar on her beige linen suit. "Better to weed out the confirmed bigots now, Mr. Borkle, before we waste good money on their training." She took Nicky back from him.

In the next room, Millie was saying, "But before we begin your orientation, I'd like to introduce someone very special. Ladies and gentlemen, the founder of Bajorcraft."

She walked into the training room. A miniature of the Orders Department, it held only twenty-four cubicles. But here too, the walls were covered with bright posters of Bajorcraft products and holiday decorations for Spring Festival.

Two dozen Bajorans looked up at her, trying to hide their reaction to the sight of a "half Cardassian" baby in her arms. By this time, most people applying at the company personnel office on Bajor had heard about her . . . domestic arrangements. But knowing about, and being directly confronted by, were two different things. This was still necessary.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. In a moment, Miss Nnaji will go over our benefits package with you: our bonus system, company paid health coverage, profit sharing plan and our generous pension. But first, I'd just like to say hello. My name is Devlin. This is my son, Nicky. And we are delighted to welcome you to Bajorcraft."

*

They ambled down the Promenade, pushing Niccolo in his stroller. Just an innocent little family, out for another evening walk. He saw Serdek, the owner of the Vulcan buffet, locking up and wished him a good evening. He wished them the same. They walked quietly past the station's shrine. From within came the mournful call and response of every evening service: "Forgive us, Oh Prophets." "And return to us your Last Orb."

One of Odo's Bajoran deputies passed them on his rounds. He nodded politely to the man, "Good evening, Mr. Dorvith." Dorvith hesitated for just a second—then he nodded back and walked on.

When there were only a few people left on the Promenade, Devlin looked at him and smiled. It was time to begin the game. Tonight she'd ask the questions, practice phrasing them in Kardasi. Next time they'd reverse the process: he'd ask and she'd answer.

They happened upon the jewelry store. She glanced around, made sure no one was close enough to hear her. If understanding Kardasi was valuable—secretly understanding it was even more so.

Looking in the display window, she began. "Does Suto always carry such low clarity flame gems?" "Aren't those Lissepian opals?" "Do Cardassians have betrothal jewelry like Bajorans and humans?" All in Kardasi, all carefully pronounced. And he answered rapidly and colloquially.

She was still getting some of the grammar wrong. But he didn't correct her; she could look it up later. Right now, she was just practicing the back and forth of a casual conversation. They weren't very intellectual conversations, not yet. But it felt so good to speak Kardasi again.

*

Julian leaned back against the turbolift wall and whistled a few bars of Tenzin's _Sinfonia in D._ Then he smiled, "Yolanda is right; the 'DS9 Chamber Orchestra' _is_ improving. Maybe we should bring Garak next time." He paused. "You seem distracted tonight, Devlin. Is something wrong?"

"Speaking of Elim, our little luncheons have been rather . . . subdued _,_ ever since you found out about him and me."

"What do you mean?" But he knew: she saw the sudden discomfort in his eyes.

"You two didn't have to stop flirting on _my_ account. I rather liked eating my lunch in a haze of thwarted lust."

"Well, it _was_ you know. Thwarted. I never did—" He sighed. "Computer, pause turbolift."

"Julian, no. I wasn't asking for an explanation."

"But I owe you one; I should have said something long before now.

"You see, when I first came here . . ."

Then he laughed. "Oh, 'lack of social graces' wouldn't _begin_ to describe it. Understandably, no one wanted anything to do with me. Except Garak. He was so interested, so kind. I did know he was trying to get close to someone in the station's new power structure. But I also knew he was attracted to me."

He shrugged, "I've never been interested in sex with another male. But the attention was so flattering. I liked that _and—_ the reaction from the _Bajorans_. I was just this awkward neophyte everyone laughed at—and then I was someone _dangerous_ , someone who consorted with _spies_. In some perverse way—it was fun."

"Believe me," she said, "I understand."

"But I should never have encouraged him, led him on. Eventually, of course, he made a pass at me. Oh, just a verbal one—very tentative, very gentlemanly. I tried to turn him down gently, couch the rejection in terms he would understand. And he accepted my response with such perfect grace. But I could tell I'd hurt him. Garak was my _friend_ and I'd _used_ him. I didn't know how to face him again. So, like a coward, I just avoided him.

"Then one evening my door chime sounded and he was standing in the hall. And he just blurted out, ' _Do_ come back to our luncheons and flirt with me again. I will behave myself, Julian. But I _won't_ give up such a wonderful way to annoy Bajorans!' So we started the game again and the station has been gossiping about us ever since." He smiled, "I understand we're practically legendary by now.

"I suppose I've always reasoned that I could swear, truthfully, that I _hadn't_ had an affair with a suspected spy. That I could have all the fun of being 'notorious' with no actual risk. But the older I've gotten, the more _juvenile_ the game has seemed. And when I finally realized that Garak had found someone, who might misunderstand or be hurt by it . . . I'm sorry if we made you uncomfortable."

"Actually, it was rather titillating. Start the game again."

"Devlin!"

"Julian, if I didn't like games, I wouldn't like Elim."


	15. Chapter 15

Reaching Sisko's office filled her with profound relief. It meant that once again she'd navigated all those damn stairs without breaking her neck. Whoever designed Ops had a good grasp of architectural psychology. Keep the underlings off balance and remind them they'd better tread carefully.

It didn't fit Sisko, who was considerably more subtle. But it told her a good deal about the original occupant of this office. She wondered how the former prefect was adjusting to his new life as a pirate. Badly, she assumed.

"Miss Devlin, come in. Please, make yourself comfortable." Sisko waved her toward the couch and brought their usual raktajinos from the tray on his desk. The captain had a good grasp of spatial psychology himself, always tried to create an atmosphere of face-to-face "teamwork." Not that she believed the illusion of equality for a moment. Sisko could no more put off his air of authority than he could shed his skin. Still, as the official representative of all the merchants on this station, she herself was not without . . . if not power, at least influence. His careful staging of their weekly meetings testified to that.

He handed her coffee to her and sat down beside her on the couch. "I passed little Niccolo on the Promenade, with Dr. Belor and Miss Rejal. And it looked like he was trying to stand up in the stroller. I know Jake didn't do that by four months."

"Oh, that's from his Cardassian side: their children mature at a faster pace for the first few years. Developmentally, Nicky's closer to a human seven or eight month old. And Dr. Belor is running a Cardassian program in the holosuites. It's a tradition. Family friends come to your house and claim the baby for the day. Then they take him to a local park and throw a coin into the Patriots Fountain to bring him good luck. Although I suspect the real purpose is to show the neighbors your family _has_ friends."

"Don't mess with us, we have connections?"

"Exactly." She took a sip of her raktajino. "And how is Jake doing? Is he all settled in at Pennington?"

"He seems happy; I think he likes New Zealand. I just hope he behaves himself. Somehow 'college days' and 'wild oats' seem to be linked in my mind."

"Reminiscing?"

"Certainly not, I was a perfect angel at that age."

She chuckled, then she said, "But seriously, he'll be fine. Do you know what Elim once told me? That he hopes his only child turns out as well as yours did. He just thinks you're a good father."

"That's . . . kind of him." The captain looked surprised, but genuinely touched.

"Well, enough doting on our offspring." He leaned a bit closer, "I need your help. A Gamma Quadrant planet called 'Teswith' has been singled out for particular cruelty from the Jem'Hadar, a deliberate _pogrom_. The Federation Council has just agreed to grant these people asylum, let them colonize an unoccupied planet in the Canopus system. The first escorted Teswithan immigrant ships will come through the wormhole next week. We will be their first contact in the Alpha Quadrant.

"That is where you come in. I would like you to explain the situation to your fellow merchants. And remind them, diplomatically, that we _all_ need to make a good first impression."

"In other words, I should tell Quark that if he fleeces the greenhorns, you'll throw his sorry ass out the nearest airlock."

Sisko smiled, "Not quite my definition of 'diplomatically,' but I leave it entirely to your discretion."

His comm gave a chime. He said, "Excuse me," and stood up to see the screen behind the couch.

"Sisko here." He looked surprised, "Miss Jabara?"

"Is that Miss Devlin with you, Captain? Please ask her to come to the infirmary. Her baby was just beamed in from the holosuites."

*

Nicky ZerKaiten sat on the biobed, his chubby little body flushed dark gray-red and quivering with indignation, and screamed bloody murder. It was the sweetest sound Bashir had ever heard—if the baby was crying, he was breathing.

From the main room of the infirmary came the staccato sound of high heels, and Devlin's voice, pitched high with fear. He picked up Nicky and hurried out.

The two Cardassian women were trying to sooth her: Rejal talking rapidly and Belor patting her shoulder.

He crossed the room and handed the crying baby to her. "He's all right now, Devlin." He had to raise his voice, "He's just _upset_."

Garak rushed in, "Miss Jabara said the child was ill."

Rejal and Belor both started trying to explain. He shushed them and waved Garak and Devlin toward his office.

"Dr. Belor, did you have a baby bottle with you?"

"Oh. Yes." She fished a bottle of infant formula out of her bag and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He gave it to Devlin, "Here, maybe this will calm him down." He guided the anxious parents into his office, got them seated and sat down behind his desk. Devlin gave Nicky the bottle. He sucked vigorously for a few seconds, let loose of the nipple to give one last protesting whimper, then latched on again.

"First of all: he is going to be all right. We can treat this." He took a breath. "Dr. Belor called for an emergency beam-in from the holosuites. Nicky was struggling to breathe; his lips and extremities were going blue."

Devlin clutched the baby closer and Garak put his arm around her.

"We gave him an injection of ramasophine, got him breathing again before any real damage was done. But I'm afraid he's showing all the signs of some neuromuscular disorder. And a broad-spectrum antispasmodic did snap him out of it. Garak, is there a history of _travent'lo_ in your family?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"What are you talking about," Devlin said. "What is travent'lo?"

"Cardassians have a large muscle, the _travent_ , that encases their lungs and controls respiration. In the condition called 'travent'lo', the autonomic signal from the brain to the travent can be interrupted. When that happens, the muscle is sent into spasms—cutting off breathing.

"For now, I can implant a neuro-regulator, just under Nicky's scalp. It will monitor and control the signal. And alert the sickbay at the first sign of any problem. But the regulator is only a stopgap measure. Eventually, he will need neurosurgery to correct the problem permanently."

Devlin went pale, "Neurosurgery?"

"But not until he's older, stronger. Probably not for five or six years. In the interim, I'll look for the top neurosurgeon in this sector, preferably at a Cardassian facility. I'd do the surgery myself, but I _know_ I can't match a doctor who specializes in the Cardassian brain."

He looked at Garak, "Surgery is our only recourse, unless you've developed a gene therapy for this. I'm afraid I have very limited access to Cardassian medical literature."

"We . . . haven't developed many therapies for chronic illnesses. I believe most infants with travent'lo die within their first year or so."

Devlin said, "You mean you let them die."

"I will not argue eugenics with you right now. I do swear that our child will receive whatever medical assistance he requires." An expression of resignation crossed his face, "If the surgery is necessary, that's what we should do."

Devlin nodded, "Yes, Julian, we'll do whatever you think is best."

He stood up. "Then let's get that regulator in right now." He walked around the desk and put his hand on her shoulder. "He'll be fine, truly; try not to worry."

He might as well tell the galaxy not to rotate. Mothers worried; that's just what mothers _did_.

*

Dr. Belor insisted on walking her home. She welcomed the company; she was still feeling shaky.

They got the weary baby settled in a nest of blankets in one corner of the couch, where they could keep an eye on him. Then Belor had her curl up in the armchair, brought her a cup of tea and sat down at the other end of the couch.

"You love him."

She looked up from her tea, "Of course I love him; he's my son."

"I'm talking about Lord Garak. The way you looked at him when he came rushing into the infirmary. I think you actually love him."

"Well, I'm . . . very fond of him." Only a fool would let herself _love_ a man like Elim. But there was no point in disillusioning this kind woman.

"I remember him as a child, how everyone adored him: his parents, his older brother, all the servants. He was such a sweet, gentle, little boy.

"And I remember the summer when we were five years old.

"My father had gone into town to buy supplies for the butler's pantry. He'd told me to stay in our cottage, but Elim asked me to come up to the manor to see his new doll house. I'm afraid I was a very willful child. I disobeyed my father and went to play with Elim.

"The doll house was set up on the back lawn, under a great spreading bintz tree. It was wonderful, custom made. The front was a replica of the facade of Garak Manor: with decorative brickwork, and copper filigree shutters on the windows. The back was open; there was a curtain you could roll up while you played, then drop when you were done. There were private family rooms on the upper floors and one grand commemoration room on the ground floor, large enough to hold a child. It had perfect miniatures of the furniture in the manor and the sweetest little dolls.

"The hot summer sun shone down, the air was filled with the spicy scent of yullick blossoms. We dressed the dolls in their finery, played at having a tea party. I remember—" Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and went on. "I remember that Elim's mother, sweet Lady Garak, brought us juice and honey bars. Elim kissed her and said, 'I love you, Mama.'"

Belor paused to wipe her eyes. "About thirty minutes later, we heard the sounds from the house: shouts, screams, and an intermittent high-pitched whine. I realized later that it must have been disruptor fire. And then, through the open windows, we heard his father, Lord Garak, screaming in agony. And Lady Garak cried out, 'I won't tell you! He's not here! No, no—don't hurt my baby!' A squad of soldiers burst out of the back door, split up and started searching the grounds. They hadn't seen us yet, there in the shadow of the bintz tree. Elim pushed me into the doll house and dropped the back curtain.

"There was only room for one of us. I should have said something, should have _tried_ to make room for him, but I was too frightened. I pulled the curtain open just a crack, saw Elim try to make a run for the back border of the estate. I suppose he thought he could escape into the forest. But the soldiers must have seen him at once; they came running and surrounded him. He was still only a few meters from the doll house; I could see and hear everything.

"And—he started talking, giving them reasons not to kill him. He said he would give them money, show them how to open the safe. They could have the manor. He would go away and live with the orphans, never tell anyone what they'd done. He wanted so desperately to live and the soldiers just laughed and egged him on.

Then a young officer appeared. He was in a black military uniform, but without the breastplate, wearing an insignia I hadn't learned at school. The soldiers fell silent at once, cleared a path between him and Elim. Even as a child I recognized that reaction: the instant deference, the submission to his power, the fear.

"One of the soldiers said, 'We found him, Advisor Tain. We've spared him, as you ordered.' The officer grasped Elim's chin, forced him to look up at him. 'Do you want to live?' Elim said, 'Yes, sir.' I could hear the terror in his voice.

"Tain told the soldiers to bring Lady Garak. Two of them left, then returned, dragging her between them. She had been horribly beaten, was barely conscious. They dropped her in front of Elim. He cried out, tried to go to her, but Tain held him back."

Ulani was crying so hard now she could barely get the words out. There was something more vivid, more intense, here than a human's mercifully faded memory of past trauma. It occurred to her that the Cardassians' much vaunted "photographic" memory—was also a curse.

"Elim loved his mother; he _adored_ her. But Tain pointed his disruptor pistol at Elim's face and said, 'Choose now. Are you the son of this condemned woman, or a Son of Tain?' He was just a little boy; he was so frightened. He said, 'I . . . I am a Son of Tain.'

"And Tain turned the pistol on Lady Garak—and killed her.

"Elim screamed and tried to throw himself on her, but Tain stopped him. Then he hit the comm signal on his wrist-guard and called for a beam-out. They all disappeared, Elim with them.

"I hid in the doll house the rest of the day and all that night. In the morning, hunger and a full bladder drove me into the manor. There were dead bodies in every room, just left where they'd fallen. Lord Garak, the older son, the tutor and secretary, all the servants. I used the housekeeper's bathroom, found some _bretha_ rolls in the kitchen and hid in the butler's pantry. My father returned from town, found me there and took me away from that place."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, "It would be eighteen years before I saw Elim again and by then he was . . . Advisor Garak, of the Obsidian Order."

Devlin looked at her baby, sound asleep now with his thumb in his mouth—tried desperately not to picture him as a five year old.

_Oh, Elim. Elim. What did that monster do to you?_


	16. Chapter 16

Devlin looked exhausted; he had to put a stop to this.

"He's just _teething_. But the nanny picked up a slightly elevated temperature and sent another medical alert, so we brought him in again."

"And he's really all right?" She clutched the cranky, drooling baby closer to her.

"It's been well over a month since the travent'lo attack. The regulator is working perfectly. You need to calm down and get some rest. And if we don't want Nicky to see himself as fragile, we can't keep running him in here for every little sniffle." He touched her shoulder, "I'd like to set the nanny's alert threshold just a bit higher. Do I have your permission?"

She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "I do see your point, Julian. Go ahead."

This close to her, he noticed that her hair had dark roots showing. That flame hot auburn color wasn't natural, and she'd been letting it go.

"Well. I'll get Nicky back to the nanny then, I'm late for a meeting." She shifted the baby to her hip, assumed a look of cool detachment and walked out.

It was eerie: as if there were _two_ of her. The rather hard individual—the only Devlin most people ever saw. And the tender woman he glimpsed only occasionally. Sometimes he thought he was the only person who could actually _see_ Ruth Giovanna Devlin.

*

"The tooth is in now; he's probably asleep." Elim turned on his side and brushed his fingers down her arm. "You haven't asked me to spend the night in a long time; I've missed you."

"I just want to check on him."

He sighed. "Yes, go. You will continue to be distracted until you do."

She got up, put on her robe and walked quietly down the hall to the baby's room. He was sound asleep, but he'd kicked off his quilt. She pulled it back up and looked around the room. Brightly colored toys. A print of cheerful Matisse goldfish. Gilora's needlepoint banner _._ A dresser-top menagerie of plush animals, all standing loving guard over one baby boy.

Everything here shouted out, " _This_ is a _cherished_ child. No one will ever leave him. No one will send him away."

There were tears on her face _._ She hadn't let herself cry _once_ since Nicky's attack; how foolish to start now for no reason at all.

Elim walked in. He'd thrown on his trousers, but he was shirtless, barefoot and atypically rumpled. He put his arm around her, led into the front room, sat in the armchair and pulled her onto his lap.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!"

"I am _attempting_ to comfort you, to help you."

"If you want to help me, go away! I will not cry in front of you!"

What a stupid thing to say when she damn well _was_ crying in front of him.

He let her up, went to the replicator and returned with a cup that reeked of rokassa juice. He sat back down and took a thoughtful sip, then he looked up at her.

"Tomorrow you will plan a break in your schedule and engage a holosuite. You will wear comfortable clothing and carry cosmetics. You will sit on the floor, in the exact center of the empty holosuite—and you will cry. Deliberately, to relieve stress. You will then order a washstand and mirror, wash your face and reapply your makeup—and you will be ready to face the world again."

He smoothed back his tousled hair, took another sip of his juice and smiled. "And now that you know you'll cry later, you _don't_ have to cry _now_."

"Elim! I don't know about Cardassians, but humans don't have that kind of control."

"But, my dear—you _have_ stopped crying."

*

The August/Hyrdthul "After Hours" mixer was following a familiar pattern. Trevor Hudgens' beautiful blond daughter arrived with her latest conquest. The Beekim sisters handed out baseball caps with their shop's "Tootie the Train" logo. The Vulcans looked faintly disapproving of everything and everyone.

And Towset Lingrim was monopolizing her time. "Have I thanked you for convincing the Emissary to lift his advertising ban? Well, with the ads subject to his approval. Still, it's _much_ more than we had before. Well done, Miss Devlin!"

She gave a polite response and promptly tuned him out again. She’d gotten quite good at pretending to listen to bores. Maybe that was one of her "innate survival skills," as Elim put it. She just hoped he would survive this babysitting stint. Once Nicky took those first unsteady steps, he was on the move—and getting into absolutely everything. A bright and happy baby, but exhausting.

There was a mirror behind the flamebirds' cage; she could just see her reflection through the mass of orange and yellow feathers. Good, her hair wasn't coming out of the intricate braid. The environmental system sent a breeze wafting past. What _was_ that smell? Pungent and vaguely herbaceous, it permeated every pet store she'd ever been in.

Towset finally wound down and wandered away to the buffet. She looked around for the guest of honor. She wasn't by the _foopins_ ' cage or the aquariums . . . Ah, there she was.

Ishka had outdone herself tonight: a shimmering golden hoop skirt and a red brocade blouse with huge leg-o'-mutton sleeves. A gold lace mantilla covered the Ferengi woman's bulbous bald head.

She snagged a moba daiquiri from the Andorian waiter, crossed the room to Ishka and pitched her voice to carry. "Fellow guild members, please join me in a toast to this month's featured business person: the owner of Ishka's Fine Collectibles and Personal Loans— _and_ 'Ishka's Playful Pets.'" She raised her glass, "To Ishka." The others joined in. She noticed that a few Bajorans had come this time—though only the sycophantic Towset had spoken to _her_.

Oh, _all_ the Bajoran merchants would show up for her guild business meetings. They learned that lesson when the others voted out the "voluntary" tithe for the station's shrine.

*

Nnaji looked down the docking ring corridor, "It's so quiet. This isn't how I'll remember it."

Most of the Siskons—and all the Akoremites—were sequestered in their quarters for the Autumn Days of Remorse. Everyone else seemed rather subdued too.

"Have you thought about it, Millie?"

"About buying a percentage of Bajorcraft? You said, 'in a few years.' Can you be more specific?"

"I'm afraid not. I stay on here to let Nicky have a father for as long as possible. But someday Elim will go home; there will be nothing to hold me here."

"Devlin, did you ever . . ."

"Did I ever what?"

"Nothing; it's none of my business."

They reached docking port three. The ship's Orion flight purser stood at the airlock, checking the passengers in. He looked bored.

"Well, I'll say goodbye now, Millie. And again, thank you for everything."

Nnaji gave her a hug, then she stepped back and looked at her.

"What _is_ it, Millie?"

"Do you ever think about going _with_ Garak? You two seem so fond of each other."

"Oh, we are. But we both know we don't have anything . . . permanent."

*

She converted Nicky's stroller to a high chair with the ease of long practice and set it at the table. Then she took the baby back from Elim and plopped him into it. The station was back at full bustle now, with long lines in the replimat. By the time she got a chef's salad for herself and some steamed fish and vegetables for Nicky, Elim had goaded Julian into yet another "humans are weird" discussion.

"So, _three_ esoteric belief systems have related holidays, on the same day?"

Julian paused between bites of his omelet, "That's not _quite_ it. Christians will celebrate All Hallows' Eve next month and Wiccans observe Samhain. But Halloween is just a folk holiday. And of course, to many humans, that day isn't a holiday at all."

"How can you people _live_ in such anarchy! One philosophy should have supplanted all the others and brought stability to the planet."

"One philosophy did," she said, "just not a supernatural one. Although the Christians certainly tried." She pointed at Bashir, "Just ask Julian. I'll bet his ancestors weren't too thrilled to see the Crusaders coming over the ramparts."

"Afraid I'm not much help there, although I suppose my family must have been Muslim at one time. And Islam has had its own violent factions." He lowered his voice, "But perhaps this isn't the best choice of topic right now."

She considered her salad, speared a chunk of tomato. "You mean this Vedek Treshette business?"

"Shh! Please keep your voice down."

She glanced around, "I don't see any Akoremites here." She dropped her voice to a mocking whisper, "What are you afraid of, think we'll start a _riot_?"

"You should take this more seriously. It's been a long time since I've felt this much tension on the station. Damn the man! The poor Akoremites have enough problems without his 'help.'"

Treshette, the newly dissenting vedek. He'd been mightily offended by the Bajorans who were out and about during the Days of Remorse. So he had—most conveniently—had an "orb vision" in which the wormhole aliens told him that Akorem Laan _had_ been the True Emissary. And that _he_ was to lead the Akoremites against the forces of evil and return Bajor to the old ways.

"It was bound to happen, Julian." She did lower her voice a bit, "I can't imagine any group of Bajorans functioning for long without some religious authority figure."

"I suppose they do need a leader. But not that hothead! He's calling for protests, ranting and raving on all the local chat shows. He's only going to increase the persecution."

"Good. Let's hope it increases enough to destroy the sect."

"Devlin!"

"You feel sorry for the Akoremites now because they're a tiny, persecuted minority. But what happens if they win out, in the end? If the Akoremites take control of the Bajoran religion, they rule Bajor. Do you really want millions of people forced back into a rigid caste system? You have a good heart, Julian. But you shouldn't try to _think_ with it."

*

Garak carefully skirted the knot of pickets outside of Adventure Outfitters. At least none of their signs said anything about "cardies;" the Bajorans were too busy tearing each other up.

OBSERVE THE DAYS OF REMORSE! THIS STORE DISHONORED THE PROPHETS! BOYCOTT UNFAITHFUL MERCHANTS! AKOREM: THE TRUE EMISSARY!

He crossed over to the replimat, selected an assortment of _brezoth_ biscuits and a cup of jasmine tea, and joined Odo at their weekly breakfast table. "Good morning, Constable. I hope our Akoremite friends didn't keep you up too late last night."

Odo set down the small message padd he'd been studying and manifested a cup of tea in his hand. "Good morning. No, they all went home at a civilized hour."

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't attend Commander Soward's 'Bogart Evening' after all. I have been pressed into service as a 'babysitter.'"

"That's too bad. Bill is showing _The Maltese Falcon_ tonight; you might have liked that one."

"Undoubtedly. But at least I still have the pleasure of your company at breakfast."

"I'm afraid this time it's more business than pleasure." Odo reabsorbed the "cup," picked up the padd and handed it to him, "This was hidden in a shipment of clothing patterns addressed to you."

" _Really_ , Constable. Do you search everyone's private mail?"

"No, only that destined for our more dangerous denizens."

"Why, thank you; that's very flattering."

He touched "play message." To his surprise, an elderly Cardassian woman appeared on the screen. "Elim," she whispered, "I'm in terrible danger. I'm on Lissepia, at the Gric'ich. Please help—" The screen went black.

But Mila was _safe_. He'd helped her assume a new identity, retire to another colony to escape Tain's enemies. Shaken, he set the padd down on the table. "No. This has to be a fake."

"You're right. It is. A good professional job, but definitely a fake. Someone is trying to lure you off this station."

"So it seems."

"Do you think this is connected to those kidnapping attempts last year?"

"Of course I do."

"Who would know you're so fond of Tain's former housekeeper?"

He shrugged, "Most of the people who knew me on Cardassia, I imagine. It wasn't a secret."

"And yet," Odo said, "anyone who _knows_ you—knows that you would suspect a forgery."

"You mean some _stranger_ is trying to abduct me? That seems _quite_ improper."

Odo shook his head, "We just don't get the caliber of criminal we used to. What _is_ this world coming to?"

*

Restful lighting, some delicate floral incense in the steamy air, soft music—and a beautiful man rubbing her back with warm oil. Devlin smiled. If the real Hoobishan Baths were anything like this, it was a wonder the whole galaxy hadn't moved to Trill.

"You know, Dax," Keiko said sleepily from the next massage table, "I think I'd ask you to run this program every single day, if Miles didn't get so funny about it."

"You mean about the boys, here? That's just silly: he knows I always run the 'massage only' option."

"Well," said Berkuta, "maybe the chief just doesn't want to babysit."

Kira chuckled, "That could be it."

"Maybe I should invest in a nanny, like you did, Devlin. Then I'd never have any trouble finding some time for myself."

"Unless the holosuites book up early and there's no place to _run_ the program. Elim is watching Nicky. When I left, he was debugging a message padd and Nicky was playing with—"

" _Attention_ : _Condition Beta_. _All Security personnel to Promenade Section One_."

Kira was already off the table and reaching for her uniform, "Odo wouldn't call Condition Beta for anything less than a full scale riot!"

The three military officers were dressed and out of the holosuite within seconds, with the two civilians right behind. They headed down the stairs. Now, outside the soundproof holosuite, she could hear the sounds of an angry crowd on the Promenade, then what sounded like a shop window breaking. Quark's employees and customers were clustered at the entrance, looking at something down the concourse. Kira pushed her way through them and ran out, closely followed by Dax and Berkuta. Keiko and she stopped in the entryway and looked out.

In front of Adventure Outfitters, the owner, Mr. Kado, stood at bay in a mob of Akoremite pickets, swinging a boat oar to keep them away from himself and his clerk. The clerk was down, crouched on the floor with his arms raised to protect himself from the picket signs aimed at his head. Just then some Siskons charged the Akoremites, swinging chairs from the replimat. Other fights had broken out all over the Promenade. Odo's deputies and Starfleet Security were trying in vain to stop them. She saw Dax flip one rioter over her head. Kira and Berkuta had disappeared into the melee.

She turned to the waiters, raised her voice to be heard over the din, "What started this?"

"Guess Kado finally got tired of being picketed," Frool yelled back. "Don't know who threw the first punch."

"I have to get home," Keiko said. "I don't know if my children are safe."

She doubted that the riot had reached the habitat ring and the combatants were utterly ignoring non-Bajorans. But there was no point in saying that to Keiko. "Let's go out the second level then. I don't think it's spread up there yet."

Keiko turned back into the bar and ran for the stairs. She started to follow her—then something just outside the entrance caught her eye.

Odo! Melting, _shifting,_ into a mass of molten light. How extraordinary! And beautiful; no recording she'd seen did justice to the glowing, stained glass color he turned.

He collapsed to the floor in a puddle, then the puddle flowed toward the epicenter of the riot: Kado and his clerk. When the puddle reached them it spread out—thinner and thinner—and turned a dark olive green. And _everyone_ there was struggling to lift their feet from the floor. Glue! He'd morphed into an industrial strength adhesive—that portion of the riot was stopped cold.

Quark tapped her on the shoulder, "Garak's on the comm." He pointed back to his office.

Elim peered at her from the screen. "Are you all right, my dear? I heard a call for reinforcements on the Promenade." Behind him, Nicky was toddling from the armchair to the couch, carrying his big rag doll. He added it to a pile of toys on the couch, picked up his toy starship and headed for the armchair with it. It was his favorite new game: he just seemed to enjoy rearranging things.

"I'm fine, dear. It's only the nice Bajorans having a little religious riot."

Quark was screaming, "Computer, seal all entrances! They aren't getting in here!"

"Oh, Quark just sealed up the bar. I'm afraid I'm going to be stuck here for a while. I just hope Keiko gets home safely."

"Between 'mad-dog' rioters and Mrs. O'Brien—I will put _my_ money on Mrs. O'Brien." He smiled, "Just return when you can, my dear. Niccolo and I will 'hold down the fort.'"

She blew him a kiss, signed off and walked back out of the office. It looked like the customers—and all the waiters and dabo girls—had bolted before the doors were sealed. Quark was ensconced at a back table with a bottle of green Aldebaran whiskey. She went behind the bar, got a glass and a deck of cards, joined him and waved a hand at the bottle.

"Go ahead," he said with a fatalistic shrug.

She poured herself a drink, paused for a second to listen to the thuds and screams still coming from the Promenade and unsealed the deck of cards. "Do you know gin rummy?"

*

Every employee of Bajorcraft was crowded into the Orders Department: service reps seated in their carrels, workers from the other departments standing in the aisles. Some of the cubicles were empty now. She stood at the back of the room with the supervisors and her secretary, Borkle Prinn. The screen at the front of the room showed the station comm logo. At precisely 08:00 it was replaced by a written message, in Federation Standard and Bajoran:

**Stand by for address from Station Commander.**

Borkle stood up very straight and clasped his hands behind his back.

The message vanished. Captain Sisko appeared.

"Yesterday," he began, "there was a disgraceful incident on the Promenade. Every person involved in that incident has been removed from this station. _Every_ person: Akoremite _and Siskon._ I will not allow this sectarian conflict to infest Deep Space Nine. So I am instituting what we humans call 'sensitivity training.' In this case, it goes like this: I command this station. I am very sensitive. From this moment on, anyone who upsets me with this intolerant nonsense _will find himself WALKING back to Bajor!_

"I trust I have made myself _clear_."


	17. Chapter 17

Elim brushed the cake crumbs into his napkin. Then he sat down beside Dax and her, leaned back against the picnic table and closed his eyes. "Next time, can't we just order _holographic_ party guests?"

She glanced down at Nicky, sitting on her lap. "I'm afraid not; he needs a real peer group. And I doubt the Bajorans will let their children play with him, so—these kids are all we've got."

They were having Nicky's first birthday party "outdoors," in Sisko's park. And when Julian couldn't come, Dax had volunteered to help. So inviting the O'Brien, McElroy _and_ all nine of the Vilix'pran children seemed reasonable—until the Vilix'pran twins got into a head-frond pulling fight and the quads ran into the pond and tried to catch the ducklings. How could children who looked that delicate be so much trouble?

Elim stood up, "Well, Niccolo, shall we feed 'birthday cake' to our feathered friends?"

"Nicky, do you want to help Coopa feed the ducks?"

"Feed the ducks!" He squirmed off her lap with a look of delirious happiness. Helping his father feed Benjamin Sisko's imaginary ducks was his greatest joy in life.

She watched them start across the lawn hand in hand: the elegant man and the sturdy, black-haired toddler who looked so very much like him.

A cry came from the pond, "I got it! I got it!"

One of the quads had actually caught a duckling. He sloshed back out, holding it over his head. The other ducks scattered, quacking in distress. She jumped up and hurried over to him. Dax was right behind her.

"Fraxi'vilix'pran, put that duckling down."

Fraxi lifted his little green nose into the air and smirked at her. "I don't have to! So there!" The duckling was giving pitiful little muffled quacks.

_That's it; party's over._

She was about to end the program, when Elim and Nicky reached them. Nicky looked imploringly up at the older child and said, " _My_ ducks," very softly.

Fraxi put the duckling down.

"Miss Devlin," Sisko's voice said from midair, "I am sorry to interrupt the party, but I need Dax in Briefing Room One. Now." He did not sound happy.

*

He'd spent most of the day aboard the docked Teswithan ship _Spring Blossom_ , giving the latest batch of immigrants their entry physicals. Then Sisko called this unexpected staff meeting. The last to arrive, for a second he thought the waves of anger radiating off the captain were due to his tardiness. But Sisko just gave him a curt nod and waited while he took his seat.

"Another Cardassian ship has disappeared. Computer, display image." A hologram of a ship appeared, floating over the middle of the conference table. Not the familiar manta ray shape of a Galor-class: something larger, squat and ugly.

"This is a file holo of the troop ship _Iron Fist_. It was en route to one of their colonies when it vanished, with the eight hundred soldiers it was transporting. I have just been informed of this by Admiral Nechayev. The Detapa Council has now decided to bypass us and take their complaints directly to her. The admiral is . . . not pleased."

Apparently the Cardassian government had gone over Sisko's head to Nechayev and she'd taken their part and read the captain the riot act. And this icy control, this clipped terseness, meant that he was absolutely furious about it.

"The council claims that this base is 'failing to maintain order' and they demand a greater Starfleet presence here. HQ is now forming a small task force to help the Cardassians guard this sector. It will consist of the _Defiant_ and two patrol vessels, the _Tatanka Witko_ and the _Th'Zar_ , which will arrive in a few days. They will be based out of DS9—"

Dax looked incredulous, "We've _begged_ for more ships to guard the wormhole—and now they're taking the _Defiant_ away from us?"

"It seems that maintaining the treaty with Cardassia is our top priority."

"The Detapa Council," Worf said, "is without honor—both corrupt _and_ incompetent. The Federation should _not_ link its fate to such people."

Sisko looked down the length of the table at him, "I share your opinion of the council, Mr. Worf. But we are not politicians; we are Starfleet officers and we have our orders." He gave a wintry smile, "And I'm afraid that your orders, Mr. Worf, are to take command of this task force."

Worf's scowl deepened, but he held his tongue. Like all of them, he was thoroughly weary of the antics of the Detapa Council—and the obtuseness of brass and bureaucrats.

"However, at least one good thing will come out of this." Sisko stood up, "Ladies and gentlemen, please rise."

Casting puzzled glances at each other, the command staff came to their feet.

"Mr. Worf: By order of Starfleet Command, I hereby promote you to full Commander's rank, with all of the duties and privileges thereto."

There was a moment of surprised silence, then they all burst into applause.

Sisko walked around the table, pinned the new pip on Worf's collar and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Commander. It is well deserved."

The big Klingon looked pleased, but a bit embarrassed by all the attention.

"This wasn't much of a ceremony," Sisko said. "If you'd like, we can put together something a bit more formal to recognize—"

"No. That will not be necessary. My last _formal_ promotion ceremony was somewhat . . . damp. I prefer this method. Thank you."

*

Quark reached into the box, fished out a copy of this year's "Saint Paddy's Day" holophoto and handed it to her. Then he propped his elbows on the bar, put his chin back in his hands and resumed staring dejectedly into space.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You seem kind of down today."

He gave a loud sigh, "You'd be 'down' too, if you had _my_ family."

"Oh dear, what is Ishka wearing today?"

"It's not her. Not _just_ her. It's my Auntie Delbo." He fell into a depressed silence again.

"Auntie Delbo?" she prodded.

"She's moving here, with her five daughters. _My mother_ has offered her," he shuddered, "a _job_. Managing the jewelry store."

"So she did buy it. How many station shops does she own now?" She already knew; it was just fun to make him talk about it.

"This makes four: Ishka's Fine Collectibles and Personal Loans, Ishka's Playful Pets, Ishka's Adventure Outfitters and Ishka's Jewel Boutique." He recited the list of business ventures like a man forced to read his own death sentence. "And she's fired the clerks in the outfitters store and offered the jobs to my two oldest cousins."

"What about the other three cousins?"

"That's the worst part. Mother wants _me_ to take them on as waiters. _Clothed_ Ferengi females! _Earning wages_! In _my_ bar! Well, I won't do it! She can't make me!" He glared at her, "I suppose you think this is funny. You think I should just give in to her demands."

She kept her expression very serious, "Not at all. As one of this station's leading businessmen, you have certain rights. Hire whom you please, fire whom you please: that's what I always say."

*

Garak frowned at the comm screen. Another message from his ally. Another demand for a meeting.

He did not have _time_ for this. Six naked Ferengi females. And every one of them calling him in for consultations. Pouring over his sketches, asking his advice. They were all so flustered at the idea of wearing clothing, of actually leaving their new quarters and being seen in public. But Ishka was insisting that they do that.

He sighed and sent a quick response. "I'm not leaving the station. If you want to see it so badly—you can come to me."

*

She walked into her shipping department, pushing Nicky's stroller, and looked around for Leeta. There she was, across the room—brightly lit, holding a blue porcelain vase up to the holocam and describing it with her usual ditsy charm. The conveyor belts, packing tables and busy "native workers" made a colorful backdrop for the Spring Supplement ad.

"Look, Mommy! People!" Nicky waved at the Bajoran packers, "Hi, people!" A couple of them looked up and waved back.

"Cut!" The director, a big rawboned Capellan woman, came stomping over. "You just ruined a good take, damn it! Get that kid out of here!" Leeta and the two human men who made up the little film crew hurried over too.

"I'm so sorry; I'm afraid my son is going through a very . . . _gregarious_ phase. I wanted to meet you, Miss Kaam; I love your work." She held out her hand, "I'm Devlin." The pause was ever so subtle. "The owner of Bajorcraft."

Kaam flushed and shook her hand. "Hey, look, I'm sorry—but your Mr. Borkle should have told me you'd be coming in." She glared at her crew, "And _these two_ have messed up take after take—"

"Lunchtime!" Quark walked in, pushing a cart with a coffee urn and an assortment of sandwiches. The film crew grabbed plates and started filling them up. Kaam threw up her hands and stomped away, muttering to herself.

Leeta stepped a bit closer, "Devlin, can I ask you something? Are my dresses too low cut?" She tugged on her bodice for emphasis.

The cameraman stepped to his right to get a better view, the lighting tech stepped to his left and they ran into each other with an audible clash of crockery.

"Apparently not."

"Well, Rom's friend from the baseball team, Crewman Schepansky, has invited us to a special dinner, a cultural observance. I don't want to be, well, disrespectful."

"I don't know Mr. Schepansky, but maybe it's best to err on the side of conservatism. How about that dress your father sent you for your birthday?"

She made a face, "I don't like that one. What do you think, Quark? Should I wear my blue dress?"

"Oh, sure, come running to me for advice—after you walked out on me!"

"I worked myself half to death for you! And Devlin pays me more than you ever did—just for telling people about her catalogs. What did you ever do to _deserve_ my loyalty?"

"I . . . I was just about to give you a big raise—just before you went and quit on me!"

The film crew set their dishes down and walked back over to them; they looked a little nervous. "Um, excuse me, Miss Darrah?" the cameraman said. "We're sorry to bother you, only . . . Well, Fong was just wondering if maybe we could take a picture with you. We want to _prove_ we worked with you. Nobody's gonna believe this."

"Yeah," the lighting tech added, " _I_ can't believe we're actually talking to the Bajorcraft Girl!"

"'Bajorcraft Girl?'"

"Don't you know? You're really famous. Most of the single guys I know have your holo-poster."

Leeta looked puzzled.

Devlin reached up to her own ear, stroked it and crossed her eyes in ecstasy.

Leeta started to giggle. "Oh! Oh, that's very sweet. Sure, I'd be happy to."

Fong lit up with a goofy grin and the cameraman gave him a playful punch on the arm.

"But first I have to figure out what to wear to the special dinner. Maybe I should dress like a Resistance fighter. Dov says it's about his people escaping from bond—"

"I _knew_ it! That's what _all_ hew-mon holidays are about. Blessed Exchequer! For people who carry on so much about freedom, you've sure spent a lot of time enslaving each other!"

*

Garak shot a quick look up and down the corridor. Deserted, as one would expect Transient Lodging to be at this time of night. He hadn't been picked up by the security cameras on the way here: he had their scanning patterns memorized of course. It would be foolish to let himself be spotted now by some late passerby. He touched the signal plate. The door opened.

"Come in. You're late."

He walked in, crossed the shadowed room to the figure seated on the couch.

"Where is it? Produce it, _now_ , or I pull out of the alliance."

He took the part out of his pocket and placed it on the low table in front of the couch.

"Not a piece of it; I want to see the whole thing."

"Do you think I'd keep it _here_? This will have to do."

A tricorder whirred, then the object was returned to him. Very gently, he noted.

"It's . . . old enough. But how did you . . . Of course: _Tain._ He must have had it—and you ransacked his house on Arawath after he was killed."

"I might have paid a _discreet_ sentimental visit."

"All right, maybe you have it. But can your people actually start a rebellion?"

"I have _thousands_ waiting— _inside_ every part of Kardasi society! _I spent over three decades of_ _my life_ _recruiting them_! Worry about your _own_ people. Worry about assembling a fleet!"


	18. Chapter 18

He was watching Bashir. Bashir was watching the beautiful Lieutenant Salazar. Gazing across the replimat table at her, hanging on her every word. Entranced.

And there were _so many_ words.

She was _so glad_ she'd finally gotten an early lunch break again, so she could have _lunch_ with _Julian_. And with him too, of course. And with Devlin. She'd heard _so much_ about their famous "literary discussions." She liked to read _too_. Had they read _The Winds of Andor_ yet? That was _such_ a good book. It was really interesting, especially the sad parts.

M'Pella had recommended it to her. M'Pella thought some parts were too sad though. Especially the part where Hrivic died in Balwoo's arms. But she liked that part; she liked to have a good cry. She was just silly that way. And then she'd taken M'Pella shopping to cheer her up

.

They'd found the cutest shoes. M'Pella's were pink, with really high heels and little white butterflies all over them. They were made out of some stiff net material, but they really looked like real butterflies. They were so cute! Of course, she didn't want to get exactly the same shoes as M'Pella, but she'd found some _adorable_ pale blue ones, with cute little puffs on the toes. Honestly, they looked like darling little baby tribbles.

Didn't they think tribbles were cute? It seemed like such a shame that you couldn't own one. She loved cute little fluffy things. Oh! Maybe she should have a tribble-art party. Had they heard of those? You got all your friends together and you made tribbles out of different soft fluffy materials. It was very creative and fun and they were just so _cute_.

Devlin shot a look of sheer desperation at him.

He set his fork down and stood up. "I'm so sorry, but Miss Devlin and I must leave early today. She needs to try on . . ."

"Swimsuits. I need to try on swimsuits." She got up too. "And I need some sun dresses. And shorts. And . . . hats."

As they hurried away, he shot a glance back at Bashir. _Was_ he entranced? Or just frozen in place?

*

" _May your dying enemies_

_See your triumph and our glory!_

_To arms, citizens!_

_Form your battalions!_ "—

Below the terrace, the lights of the city began to twinkle on as the summer day faded. The singer's words floated out, clear and strong, over the _Cafe des Artistes_ and out into the warm Parisian air. An unobtrusive UT speaker in the table amplified and translated. She assumed the Bajorans at the next table were hearing _La Marseillaise_ in their own language; they listened raptly, nodding and smiling. Bless their bloodthirsty little hearts. Elim had been wise not to come.

Everyone here at Sisko's table had followed his example and stood for the old anthem; everyone at the other tables had copied them. As the last note sounded, they took their seats again: Sisko and Kasidy Yates, Dax and her Gallamite friend Captain Boday, herself and Julian, with her sleepy son in his arms. The other station residents took the cue and sat down again too.

The first burst of fireworks brought them all back to their feet. There, over the Eiffel Tower.

Sizzle, whine, bang! Flowers of fire bloomed against the darkening sky, then drizzled down the night wind in scattered embers. The crowd greeted each succeeding display with a collective indrawn breath, with that instinctive delight in ephemeral beauty—and in things-that-go-boom. To complete the illusion, the faintest hint of sulfur drifted on the evening breeze.

Bashir stood Nicky on the table, keeping a firm grip on the back of his coverall. He bounced up and down, reaching his hands up to the glory in the sky and laughing in delight.

It looked like Sisko's Bastille Day celebration was a huge success. The Bajorans had been mightily impressed by the cuisine, the wine, the impassioned speeches about " _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité._ "

As she understood it, this was all part of Sisko's ongoing demonstration that humans—and, by extension, the Federation—shared the Bajorans' supposed love of freedom. She'd missed last year's _Syttende Mai_ celebrations, too worried about Nicky's health then to socialize. Two years ago had been the Juneteenth picnic. Before that, the station had observed South Africa's Freedom Day, Australia Day, Brazil's _Sete de Setembro_ , Tiananmen Day and the Fourth of July.

She wondered what Kai Winn and the vedeks, skillfully manipulating their people with the silken threads of charismatic power, made of all this. Were they amused by human naiveté?

After the fireworks, Sisko thanked everyone for coming. Then he called for the exit and strolled out with Captain Yates. Other people followed them, leaving the Cafe des Artistes for the gray corridor above the bar. It looked like Quark was keeping the program running until the very last reveler left "Paris."

As Julian, Nicky and she passed one of the empty tables, she heard a woman's voice speaking softly from the grill in the tabletop.

—"see what the tailor's whore was wearing today?"

The public address system was still on. She looked back at the small dais where the orators had spoken. Three Bajoran women were standing next to it, talking. They were all Bajorcraft employees. _Her_ employees. And they didn't realize their conversation was being amplified and translated.

Bashir grasped her upper arm and tried to hurry her out. She pulled out of his grip and sat down at the table, facing the dais. Picking up an empty wine bottle and a glass, she pretended to pour herself a drink. Julian sighed in resignation, picked up Nicky and sat down across from her.

—"should have figured it out ages ago, before she had the baby. Just from the way she dresses for him, all those cardie styles."

She glanced down at her black pants and elaborately ruched teal tunic.

"How can she stand to _touch_ him? Even the normal ones are disgusting and he's so . . . you know."

"Keep your voice down, she's right over there."

"She can't hear us, she's just talking to the doctor."

She pretended to take a sip of wine.

"Do you think they're _both_ sleeping with the spoonhead? I mean, at the same time?"

"Probably. I heard that a cardie officer would make a girl start at his feet, and a boy start at his head, and nibble along his body ridges until they met"—

Julian stood up, "I don't need to hear this. Nicky doesn't need to hear this. I'm taking him to my quarters. Promise me you won't do anything violent to those women."

"Whatever do you mean, Julian dear?"

" _Promise me_."

"I promise."

"Good. Don't listen to much more of this. And find someplace _private_ for the screaming tantrum you're building up to."

"I'm sure I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

*

She yanked a piece of navy silk off the workroom shelf. "Would a Cardassian woman wear _this_?"

"I believe so," Elim said very carefully.

"Good, make me a dress." She tossed it onto the pile of fabric on the floor and grabbed a piece of plum georgette, "Does _this_ look Cardassian?"

He gave her a quizzical look, "It would if I pleated it."

She threw it at the pile; it overshot and landed on the shipping carton by the couch. She unfolded a length of coppery Balmazian satin. "How about this one?"

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

She told him. All of it.

"And being accused of wearing 'cardie' styles makes you want to wear more of them?" He was laughing. "What a contrary nature you have."

"Yes, damn it! Being told I shouldn't . . . "

"What is it?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Strip."

"Excuse me?"

"Take off your clothes. And go lie down on all that lovely silk and satin. Wouldn't that feel good? You know you want to."

He was grinning now, and slipping his shoes off. "Oh, my! Am I about to get my ridges nibbled?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"That will show them!" He shed his clothing as he crossed the room, flinging garments left and right, getting into the spirit of the thing. Lying down on the pile of fabric, he put his hands behind his head with a great show of nonchalance. She walked over and knelt down by him.

"Oh, dear. I _do_ hope that anger dissipates before those sharp little teeth reach any really _cherished_ bits of my anatomy."

She straddled his hips, lowered herself and gently nipped the soft pebbled skin of his underarm. He drew in a sharp breath and shivered. "Well," she purred, "that's just the chance you'll have to take."

She bit one tough cartilaginous neck ridge, hard enough to make him flinch, then she nibbled slowly down the narrow ridges that looped down his torso. Slowly down the ridge on one leg—the corded muscles so tense now under the leathery skin. Now a nip on the other ankle, and her mouth moved—slowly—up to the soft, sweet, vulnerable skin behind his knee. So many fascinating detours to take, as he cursed and pleaded and whimpered.

But he kept his hands locked behind his head. Elim was a games player and he understood the unspoken rules of _this_ game: knew that this time his role was to lie passive and let her have her way with him.

How wonderful to have Garak—beautiful, sinister, deadly _Garak—_ begging for her stroking hands, enslaved to her tormenting mouth. Oh, what fools those women were, to look at this dangerous beauty and not _see_ it.

_Patience, patience, dear heart . . . I'm getting there._

_*_

She studied her image in the workroom mirror. Behind her, Elim lay sprawled across the pile of rumpled fabric. " _Does_ this outfit look Cardassian?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you been dressing me in Cardassian styles?" She stared at her reflection, "This doesn't look like something Gilora or Ulani would wear."

He sat up, cross-legged, and wrapped himself in a length of purple velvet. "No, scientists usually wear very conservative, structured, clothing. But some of your wardrobe does rather resemble our haute couture."

She turned around.

.

He shrugged, "I wasn't trying to make you 'look Cardassian.' You just seem to share some of the tastes of the Cardassian upper class."

"Oh, well, if it's the _upper_ class."

He gave her a rueful smile, "I was only the younger son, you know. If my life had taken the course it was meant to, I might very well be a real couturier today. My family could have set me up in my own _maison_. . . Who knows, it might have been a happy life."

She walked over to him, knelt down and gently placed a kiss inside the ankh shape on his forehead. "Now _I_ make your life happy."

"You do indeed. And you seem much calmer now. I was _so_ glad to be of service."

She smiled, "So I gathered. Yes, I can speak to those women without losing my temper now. I'll call them into my office first thing in the morning."

"And you actually think you can change their opinion of you?"

"Don't be silly; I'm going to fire them."


	19. Chapter 19

"Get to the point—before this transmission shows up on a security panel."

"Hovar refuses to commit his ship—or his troops—without a secure base of operations. You say you can obtain a base 'when the time comes.' The time is _here_ , Garak."

He considered his options.

"Very well, I'll get one of my agents on the waiting list. But the Autumn Days of Remorse begin tomorrow, remember? The palace will be incommunicado for the next week. I'll get back to you—"

"Wait. Hovar wants to see . . . the item you showed me. I won't risk bringing him to the station. Melpip is having a sale next week; we can meet there."

_Damn_. But Hovar's troops were absolutely crucial.

"I'll need a cover story: an excuse to leave the station. I'll let you know when I've arranged something." He cut the transmission.

*

"Lieutenant, you must be the most accident-prone person on this station." Bashir wiped the rust colored goo off Berkuta's cheek, pulled out the sliver of glass beaker and ran a dermal regenerator over the cut.

He stepped back to check his handiwork, "Just out of curiosity, what do chemical experiments have to do with the communications array?"

She gave him that mischievous grin, "Come on, Doctor, what would happen to The March of Science without the occasional"—she flung her arms wide—" _boom_!"

Much to his surprise, two Bajoran children peeked into the infirmary, took a few cautious steps into the room and stared solemnly up at him. The little boy said, very seriously, "Is Miss Margo all right, Dr. Bashir?"

"She's just fine, Aldor." He looked sternly at Berkuta, "She will continue to be fine— _if_ she stops playing with explosives."

"It wasn't _explosives_ , just a few common chemicals."

"And jumja syrup!" little Pinar Laren put in. "To make the bubbles _orange_!"

That brought a flood of happy memories. "Miss Berkuta—have you started a _science club_?"

"The 'DS9 Junior Science Club,' to be exact. And call me Margo; we can't be this formal when I'm in here practically every day."

He laughed, "Margo, it is then. And—"

Garak poked his head in the door. The children turned to look at him, wide-eyed. 

"Could I speak to you for a moment, Doctor? I'm plotting and scheming—and I may need your powers of persuasion."

*

Devlin glanced at the far corner of the replimat. Lieutenant Bao and Prylar Vot were having their regular weekly argument over the _feng shui_ of the station's shrine. Vot was the only Bajoran in the place. They were all supposed to be at home, repenting of their sins. Maybe Vot thought he didn't have any. Considering what a bore he was, maybe he didn't.

Well, he was the only _full_ Bajoran here today. Her bookkeeper, a very pretty Cardassian/Bajoran girl, was just walking past the replimat with her boyfriend, young Bradley Hudgens. Three of her "mixed blood" workers were dating human merchants. It made sense that the expatriate humans would feel some kinship with them. The humans were outliers too. They might love Earth, might visit frequently, but Earth's economy needed only a handful of retailers for the artisans' districts.

She took a closer look at the girl and wondered if "mixed blood" was accurate. There was nothing specifically Bajoran about her. The facial ridges weren't very prominent, but that was true of many purely Cardassian women. A bran'gleis? Maybe.

Then she saw Elim and Julian heading for the replimat. They came up the steps; Elim gave her a kiss on the cheek and took his seat. Both of them were grinning.

"All right, what are you two up to?"

Julian sat down too, "Garak has a surprise for you."

"My dear—I am taking you on holiday. We have reservations on the next ship to Lissepia."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, 'working vacation' might be more accurate. There is an important art auction at the Hotel Gric'ich in two days. I thought you might like to consider some non-Bajoran art investments."

"Elim dear, according to _Art Dealer's Weekly_ the sales at the Gric'ich are just a glorified flea market. I wouldn't be caught dead there."

He waved away her objection, "Oh, you don't have to actually buy anything. This is just an excuse for a vacation anyway. Please, let me do this for you. You've scarcely been off this station, aside from day trips to Bajor, in over two years."

"But Julian told me," she lowered her voice, "you'll be assassinated if you leave the station."

"I'm afraid our Julian is rather melodramatic at times. I _have_ left the station, for brief periods, several times in the years he's known me. In any case, most of the people who wanted to kill me are dead themselves now." He sighed. "These are such unsettled times."

" _Most_ of them are dead? How many are left?"

"Oh, don't worry about them; I can take care of myself."

"But what about Nicky? I can't take a toddler to an art auction."

"That's all arranged," Julian said. "He'll be with the nanny while I'm on duty, then I'll watch him. He knows me, it wouldn't be like leaving him with a stranger."

"But I'd worry about his health—"

" _Devlin,_ he'll be staying with his doctor."

"I must admit," Elim said, "this is for me too. I would _really_ like to get off this station for a while."

Poor baby, he looked so pitiful.

***

She finished the call to Bashir just as Elim walked back into their stateroom.

"Ah, did you get through to the station, my dear? How is Niccolo doing?"

"He's just fine—but 'Uncle Julian' looks a little frazzled."

Elim chuckled.

She walked to the bunk, sat down and patted the mattress. He smiled and sat down beside her.

"I trust you've found and nullified any surveillance devices here?"

He blinked. "There weren't any. But of course I always check."

"And nothing here is actually the good constable in disguise?"

"No." He was beginning to look faintly concerned.

"Good. Now tell me why we're going to Lissepia."

"My dear, as I explained, we both need a vacation."

"That's a lie. You've used me as an excuse to leave the station. I don't mind that. But if you want my help from here on in, you'll tell me what's going on." She let just a bit of indignation into her voice, "Am I a member of your organization, or not?"

"Very well, I can tell you some of it. Not all; not yet. It would be too dangerous for you."

"And the less I know, the less I can reveal under interrogation."

"That too."

He clasped his hands together on his lap, studied them for a moment.

"When the Obsidian Order was destroyed, my Royalist underground became the largest, most efficient intelligence organization in this sector. But any clandestine group has certain disadvantages. For one thing, we are not a _military_ power—and armed might is essential to our goals. So we've formed an alliance with one of Cardassia's best tacticians, a man with valuable contacts in the military. Eventually, this alliance will build a Royalist force capable of defeating the Detapa Council.

"A few weeks ago, that ally sought out a certain Cardassian gul and proposed a deal. If he would come over to us, and bring almost a thousand ground troops with him, we would guarantee him a secure base of operations. We _are_ taking steps to secure such a base. For his ship and for the other captains who will follow his example. But he is demanding to see proof of our ability to trade for it.

"Our cause needs him; we need his men. So my ally is bringing him to Lissepia. And I am bringing the proof he demands." He smiled, "The 'art auctions' at the Hotel Gric'ich are a ruse, a cover for certain shadier dealings. For a fee, the hotel's owner will provide a private meeting place for any drug smuggler, gun runner—or political conspirator, no questions asked. And I'm afraid that at this point you _are_ merely an excuse to get me off of DS9. But at the next stage of our plans you will be absolutely essential, I do assure you."

"So. Why did your ally wait eight months before contacting Gul Hovar?"

"Gul Hovar? What makes you think—"

"Of course you're talking about the captain of the _Iron Fist_. Or has some _other_ Cardassian troop ship gone missing too, only no one's heard about it? Don't insult my intelligence, Elim."

He paused for a moment, probably considering a denial. Then he sighed. "Yes, you have it. Hovar convinced his crew—and the ground troops' officers—to desert and steal their own ship. As an independent renegade, he does harass some Klingon outposts, sporadically. But he's spent most of his time evading the Cardassian fleet, and the formidable Mr. Worf. So now he will at least consider throwing in with the royalist cause."

He shrugged, "Oh, he has no particular affection for the monarchy. Like so many Cardassians, he's just sick of the Detapa Council. Their utter failure to protect our colonies. The food shortages at home. The collapse of even the most basic municipal services." His voice rose, the anger and disgust evident on his face. "Sick of the corruption and venality that starts with the council and works its way down through the populace. Sick of seeing our people dispirited, confused, rudderless."

He stopped himself, took a calming breath. Then he touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Please accept my apology, my dear. Of course you'd deduce that I was speaking of Hovar. I'm afraid sometimes I underestimate you."

"Yes. You do. And if I'm to be 'absolutely essential' to your plans, I'll need to know precisely what they are. I _am_ attending this meeting."

*

There was an acrid stench from the ash receptacle next to the couch. _Boq-gen_? Tobacco?

She got back up and resumed wandering around the lobby. Not that there was much to see. The lobby was big, that was about all that could be said for it. Patched and faded furniture, a cart with dirty dinner trays left in one corner, one unkempt Lissepian janitor halfheartedly vacuuming. She'd seen old hotels that had a sort of brave faded grandeur. The Gric'ich wasn't one of them.

After he'd had a word with the desk clerk, Elim had told her to wait, then he disappeared into the manager's office. He'd been in there for twenty minutes, what was taking him so long?

She came to the open entryway into the ballroom and looked in yet again at the "Gric'ich Art Sale," unable to control her horrified fascination. There were dealers' tables around the perimeter of the room and a square of tables in the center. She could see cheap ceramic figurines, junk jewelry, dolls, tee shirts with rude sayings. Part of the right hand wall was devoted to Sonny Clemens posters. Next to them were some ghastly genre paintings of voles playing dom-jot.

The room was filled with excited, milling Lissepians. Apparently no one had told the locals this was all just a cover. They were actually buying this garbage.

She turned back into the lobby—and bumped into two very tough-looking Andorians. Each woman drew her antennae back in warning and reached for the knife on her belt.

She stepped back, held her hands away from her body in a gesture of ritual submission and said the one Andorian phrase everyone in the quadrant memorized. "Formal apologies. Please do not kill me."

The Andorians relaxed slightly and dropped their knife hands back to their sides. They brushed past her and went on their way.

"Well handled, my dear." Elim was walking across the lobby to her, accompanied by a Lissepian man in a rumpled business suit, presumably the hotel manager. The Lissepian gave her a doubtful look.

Elim said, "This young lady is with me."

The manager shrugged and gestured to a corridor just off the lobby. The three of them walked to the end and stopped at a turbolift with an "out of order" sign on it. The manager looked around, then he hit the call button and waved them in as the doors opened, remaining behind himself.

The doors closed. A shimmering wall of green scanning rays swept across the chamber. A tray slid out from the back wall. " _Deposit all weapons on the tray_ ," a scratchy computer voice intoned. " _They will be returned when_ _you check out_."

Elim fished a phaser out of one pocket and a knife out of another and laid them on the tray. "They _expect_ you to be armed, my dear. It is just a matter of dressing appropriately for the milieu."

She lifted her skirt, plucked the stiletto out of her garter and set it on the tray. "I understand perfectly, dear heart." The tray slid back into the wall.

Elim grinned and shook his head as the lift moved upward.

The doors opened and they stepped out into a room almost as big as the lobby. The give of the carpet under her foot was the first thing she noticed, it was so much thicker here. There were scattered groupings of chairs and couches, a self-serve bar, pictures on the walls. About a dozen people were seated around the room. All carefully not looking at each other, not drawing attention to themselves. How nice: the invited criminals had their very own VIP waiting room.

Elim whispered, "We're early; I should double check the security arrangements. I'll be back in a few minutes." He cut across the room and disappeared through a door at the back, the only way out besides the turbolift.

Being left behind was getting tiresome. She would have something to say about that, when this was over. She took a seat and looked around; at least this crowd was more interesting. She even saw someone she recognized from a wanted notice on the newsnet: a dumpy I'danian woman with a pockmarked face.

A few Cardassians. That was to be expected: Lissepia was on the border of Cardassian space. Two humans, ridiculous in survival colony camouflage—which hardly served its purpose in a hotel full of business suits and tourist attire. A sleek, insectoid Craa'thid, a Klingon and some more Andorians. All so different from each other, yet also very much alike: hyper-alert, hard and dangerous looking.

A uniformed bellboy entered, spoke to the Craa'thid and escorted him back through the door. She heard the turbolift doors open. A Cardassian man and woman sitting near her glanced up, then stiffened and stared at the lift. The woman put up her hand to fiddle with her elaborate hairdo. The man reached for a weapon that wasn't there. The entire room had gone utterly still.

Trying to be inconspicuous, she shifted her gaze to the lift. Three Cardassian men were just stepping out of it. The one in front was about her age, tall, well built. He was followed by a stocky man in a hooded jacket.

Then the third man stepped past them and strode into the room—and she knew _he_ was the one everyone had reacted to. Older, around Elim's age. Sharp featured. Whipcord thin, tough and wiry looking. Perfect posture, graceful carriage, with an arrogant swagger to his walk. His body language, his cold expression, carried an unmistakable message.

It seemed the message was accepted too. Even the Andorians got out of his way as he crossed the room, his companions following. They walked through the door, not waiting to be summoned.

_"Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look . . . such men are dangerous."_

But he was also . . . _familiar._ She must have seen his picture—

No!

She jumped up, tore across the room and ran through the door. A long corridor with closed doors on either side. The men had vanished. Then she'd try every—

A door just a short way down slid open and Elim stepped out, "Ah, there you are, my dear."

She hurried over to him, "Elim, we have to—"

The men were behind him, in the room. The stocky one was sitting at a table. The other two were standing just in back of Elim.

He pulled her into the room; the door shut and she heard a faint hum as a force field cut back in.

"Gentlemen," he said in Standard, "this is Miss Devlin, my top representative on Bajor."

"Cassius" stepped forward, shook her hand and gave her a surprisingly charming smile. "I am so _very_ pleased to meet you."

Apparently assuming she didn't speak Kardasi, he shot a glance at Elim and switched to that. "So you're Garak's _new_ little friend. Why, you must not know _which_ way to turn."

Elim had no expression on his face, none whatsoever. "Miss Devlin, permit me to introduce the head of the Royalist military forces."

One muscle clenched in his jaw.

"My . . . closest ally. Gul Skrain Dukat."


	20. Chapter 20

She put her hands on the counter and leaned forward. "I want to see it."

Elim blinked in confusion, "Excuse me?"

"I've thought it over. For all I know, this is just some elaborate con game. I want to _see_ it."

He shrugged, looked around the empty shop and ordered the door locked. Then he led her back to the workroom and pulled open a drawer in his serger cabinet. "I don't know why you have to see it again; you watched Hovar authenticate—"

"Not that. I want to see _it_."

"My dear Devlin, you don't think I'd keep such a thing _here_ , on the station."

"Your life is in danger every time you leave the station. Of course you hid it here _._ And my role in your plans comes to a screeching halt unless you take me to it _right now._ "

He gave a deep sigh, walked over to the couch, took a dirty tea cup off the shipping container next to it and pulled off the container's lid. "Take a look then."

"You've got to be joking! You never even lock this door; people wander in here all the time."

He beamed at her, "So no one thinks there is anything of great value here. I did think that was a clever way to hide it. But I must confess. I got the idea from a story the good doctor recommended: _The Purloined Letter_. You humans _can_ be tricky."

She walked over and peered into the container. "Damn!" Then she thought about it. "Well, it _looks_ like—"

Elim snapped the lid back on and set the tea cup back on the makeshift "table." "And that will have to be proof enough for you. Now are you with me, or not?"

*

"I believe congratulations are in order," Fortumal said. "I hear you have been elected to a second term as president of the DS9 Merchants Guild. That, in fact, you ran unopposed! That is a tribute to the fine job you have been doing." The little vedek sat stiffly in the armchair, bolt upright with his hands folded in his lap. Apparently he wasn't comfortable being alone with a woman in her private quarters, at least not with a woman with a "reputation."

She brushed a bit of lint off her long knit vest and smiled at him, "Thank you, Your Grace. But I think that says more about the modesty of the other guild members than it says about me."

She'd thought Towset Lingrim might run for guild president. But putting him on the executive committee had let him see just how time-consuming the unpaid position was. As for any other merchant who might have opposed her . . . Well, she'd taken care to hire their friends and relatives, and since that Bastille Day incident they knew she wouldn't hesitate to fire someone.

"No, no, Miss Devlin, You are doing an _excellent_ job for the merchants here. Just as your company does so much for our people: providing employment, finding new markets for our artisans. The Bajoran people are very grateful to you."

_No they aren't. But you are, and that should be enough._

She ducked her head and whispered, "It's kind of you to say so." Then she rolled the tea table a bit closer, held a cup under the spigot of the Bajoran samovar and filled it with pale blue _quimth_ tea. "Do you take _yeetha_ nectar in your tea, Your Grace?"

"Just a touch, please."

She added a spoonful of nectar and handed the cup to him. "Your Grace, I have asked you here to request a very great favor."

"You have only to ask, Miss Devlin."

"I am intrigued by your culture, your faith." She waved a hand at the leather-bound books on the side table, the votive lamps scattered around the room, the prayer mandala, the crystal offering bowl on its moba wood stand. "You are such a _spiritual_ people. Sometimes I feel as if something, or someone, _led_ me here."

"Oh yes, Miss Devlin. Surely the prophets have guided your steps."

"I believe they have. And now . . .

"I've heard that the Kai herself devotes one day each month to those chosen by the vedeks for the honor of meeting her. That she grants each supplicant a private, ten minute audience. Do you suppose she would give a mere 'seeker after truth' the same privilege? Oh, I know you must be _besieged_ by these requests. But to actually _speak_ with Her Eminence, receive her advice, her blessing—that would mean so much to me."

"My dear Miss Devlin, I would be happy to place your name on the waiting list. Although I'm afraid that you will need to be very patient. The Kai is so busy now, trying to heal this unfortunate 'Akoremite' schism. She has been forced to reduce the time she devotes to her audiences. I hear that now the wait may be as long as eight or nine months."

_Oh, no._

He peered at her, "Shall I still put your name on the list?"

"Of course, Your Grace." She smiled, "I will study _The Commentaries on the Prophecies—_ and assume this is all for the best. And thank you, Your Grace."

Eight or nine months? Elim was going to have a fit. How would they salvage the plan? Had she borrowed all this set dressing from the Bajorcraft stockroom for nothing?

*

Elim set the pinking shears down on his work table and turned to look at her. "But that isn't bad news. In fact, this is a very welcome development."

"But I thought we were in a hurry to secure a base for the ships, the troops."

"No," he said, " _Dukat_ is in a hurry, and Hovar." He frowned, "Dukat's been on the run for so long now, forced to live always in the moment. He's forgotten the importance of _patience_.

"For the first time in Bajoran history, there is a rivalry between the religious and secular power bases. Specifically, between Kai Winn and First Minister Shakaar. And in this dispute between the Siskons and the Akoremites, only Shakaar can offer himself as a neutral peacemaker. Winn acknowledged Sisko as the 'Emissary' as a matter of political expediency. Now with each passing day she's seen more and more as part of the problem. In eight or nine months she'll jump at what we're offering: she would replace Shakaar in the people's hearts, virtually overnight.” He smiled. "Excellent news, my dear."

*

"I don't think daffodils will do it."

Bashir jumped and stepped back from the florist's kiosk. He looked around; Dax was standing there, grinning. How had she found out? How did she always find out everything about everyone?

"Won't do what?"

"Don't play innocent with me. Yolanda thinks you aren't listening to her. That's a big one, Julian. That's going to take more than flowers."

He cast a quick glance around the Promenade and lowered his voice, "But she goes _on_ and _on_ about trivialities. And she's _always_ so . . . _perky_." He sighed. "But I really didn't mean to hurt her feelings." He looked back at the kiosk. "Flowers won't do it?"

"It's got to be something big and flashy— _if_ you want to hold onto her." She gave him the strangest look. "Or you could _finally_ realize—"

"What?"

"Nothing, Julian. Buy something nice for Yolanda. And _try_ to listen to her."

*

"I _will_ go help Coopa!" Nicky turned around and headed back down the Promenade.

She caught him, knelt down and spoke quietly, but firmly. "You may help Daddy _later._ He's showing party dresses to Miss Parzin; we can't disturb him."

Elim was taking a great interest in the Parzin/Hudgens engagement party. It seemed he'd met her pretty half-Cardassian bookkeeper years ago, at the Tozhat Resettlement Center. She assumed there was some story there, but she hadn't heard it yet.

Nicky's tiny body stiffened up, his jaw set. She recognized that stubborn look—she'd seen it in her mirror often enough. She stood back up and reached for his hand, "It is time to go to Nanny now."

He stamped his foot, "No!" More stamps, "No! No! No!"

" _Niccolo_!"

He threw himself down on the floor, "I _will_ help Daddy! _I will_! _I will_!"

Oh no, not again.

She pulled him to the side of the hallway, walked a few steps away and pretended to look at a display of Winnipeg crystal in the window of Hudgens' Emporium. Then she heard a discreet cough—and turned to see Captain Sisko walking up to her. What incredible timing the man had!

"So he's following the human pattern now. Or do Cardassian toddlers do this too?" He smiled, "Jake always picked the middle of the post exchange. How do they _know_ to fling the tantrum in a public place?" He sounded so calm and cheerful she wanted to smack him.

" _I will_! _I will_! _I will_!"

A pride of Teswithan immigrants walked past, looking down at Nicky and trying to sooth him with soft, trilling purrs. Audrey Hudgens peered out of the shop window to see what was happening. Well, it was her brother's engagement that triggered all this!

"Refusing to react to the tantrums is _supposed_ to make the child stop trying this."

"That worked with Jake, but it took . . . "

Nicky had stopped screaming. He stood back up and trudged slowly over to them. He looked up at her, his little face tear-stained, his lower lip trembling. "Can I help _Mommy_?"

"I'm _sorry_ , Nicky; Mommy has a meeting with her art buyers. I will pick you up from Nanny, _later_."

He gave one sad little sniff, then he sagged against her in defeat.

She closed her eyes, "Captain, please say, 'There, there, Miss Devlin; it will get easier.'"

Sisko patted her arm, "There, there, Miss Devlin; it will get easier." Then he leaned down and whispered gleefully in her ear. "But this is nothing. Just wait until he's a _teenager_."

*

Garak took the chair beside Devlin, watched Bashir seat himself behind his desk. Devlin looked anxious. But the doctor had said it wasn't an emergency, just something they needed to discuss.

"I've found the two best neurosurgeons in this sector. Now we need to pick one of them to perform Nicky's surgery. The first one is Dr. Thhm Xe, affiliated with the Thrigmar Regional Hospital on Lissepia. He is an excellent surgeon and he does have extensive experience with Cardassian patients. The other is Dr. Gzano Zhemoor, a Cardassian, who has a private clinic in the Belfon Colony. He is _the_ leading expert on the Cardassian brain, known for rehabilitating brain injured soldiers.

"I have contacted both the Lissepian hospital and the clinic. The hospital's wait time for elective surgery is just a few months. But the clinic's waiting period can be as long as three years; Zhemoor's contract with the Cardassian military takes precedence over civilian admissions. Discovering that, I asked to have Nicky's name put on the clinic's waiting list now. They've just sent me the admission forms. And they require all medical records—including genetic scans—of the child and both parents. If we use Dr. Zhemoor, it will not be possible to pass Nicky off as a hybrid."

_Ah, there it is_. _Well, it was inevitable._

"Garak, will this be true of all Cardassian facilities?"

"I am afraid so, Doctor."

Bashir looked at Devlin, "Then I can think of only two options.

"Take Nicky to the Lissepian surgeon and tell him you are just his stepmother. Dr. Xe is not Cardassian. He's never even heard of the bran'gleis. He will see Nicky as just another Cardassian patient. Which he is.

"Or, contact the Cardassian surgeon, Dr. Zhemoor, privately and admit the truth. Ask him to help the child and not report Garak to the authorities. Appeal to his medical ethics and sense of mercy.

"Can either of you think of any other option?"

_None that I would tell you about_.

He just shook his head.

Devlin said, "No."

"Zhemoor might be the better choice, medically. But if he reports Garak to the authorities, he may lose all chance of _ever_ regaining his Cardassian citizenship. You are the legal parent, Devlin. I'm afraid the choice must be yours."

Devlin turned to look at him, "What do you want me to do?"

"My dear Devlin, as the good doctor has just pointed out, the decision is not mine."

"Oh, I'm not asking you to make the decision for me. I'm asking you, what do you _want_ me to do?"

And then she just— _looked_ at him.

Ah! It was one of those _tests_. Those tests the humans were _always_ putting him through; where any decision that was moral by their lights was idiotic by his. And common sense told him it was insane to risk everything for a child who was, after all, a non-person.

But . . . _something else_ told him that Nicky's well-being, Devlin's happiness, were more important to him than his own. And if he listened to that something else, he was a fool.

Then he was a fool. "If Zhemoor is the better surgeon, that is who you must pick. For now, Julian can send the clinic an . . . _edited_ version of Niccolo's medical records . . ."

Bashir raised an eyebrow.

"A genetic profile with human elements added will at least get Nicky on the waiting list. Of course, once he is admitted the clinic's own scans will reveal a child with no genetic link to the 'mother' on his birth registration. And a tell-tale pattern of DNA redundancy. But I will handle that problem when I come to it."

Bashir looked deeply conflicted, but after a moment . . . he nodded.

"Very well, I'll . . . do whatever I have to."

_Oh, my pretty doctor. Falsifying medical records? And for mere friendship. Young Bashir was wise to turn me down. Loving me would destroy you._


	21. Chapter 21

She paused the playback on her comm and looked up at Elim. "That's it. That's every last thing she said in the month of _Darein_."

All of the kai's public statements, from roughly mid-January to late February, had followed her usual pattern. She _almost_ called Treshette an apostate. She _almost_ endorsed Sisko as the _only_ "Emissary." And the Akoremite insurgency grew steadily stronger.

"Why doesn't she _do_ something? An overwhelming majority accept Sisko as the Emissary. Can't she see that's the right position to take?"

Elim studied Winn's image, "That woman is one of the smartest politicians I've seen—and she _is_ doing something. She's waiting, hoping, for some new element, some additional advantage over Treshette, and Shakaar. And we know her gamble will pay off—in five more months." He frowned, "But she may be coming to the end of her patience. Replay that last press conference."

They watched it again. "Pause." He pointed at Winn's hands, "Right there. When she says the situation is 'under control' she unconsciously grasps her left hand with her right. And that means she's lying; she thinks the situation is slipping out of her control. I think she'll change her tactics, soon."

"All that from one gesture? Grasp one hand with the other and you're lying?"

"But that one applies only to Bajorans. Each race has its own 'tells': its own particular disconnects between verbal and non-verbal language. It's an interesting study."

"So it seems." She was tempted to ask how one knew when a Cardassian was lying, but refrained. Whatever it was, Elim had undoubtedly established conscious control over it long ago. "You said Winn's tactics would change soon," she said instead. "What do you think she'll do?"

"My dear, I have no idea."

*

Rejal walked into her quarters with a cheerful, " _Vriith ilansua_ , Devlin,"and handed her a packet of red leaf tea. Then she spotted Elim sitting on the couch, "A good evening to you too, Mr. Garak."

It was a happy routine: whenever Gilora was on the station they'd get together and speak Kardasi. She enjoyed Rejal's company and it was helpful to have another Cardassian to practice with.

Gilora smiled, "Are you ready for another 'Cardassian Tea'?"

She answered carefully in Kardasi, "I hope so."

Nicky peeked into the living room. "I got a new shirt, Auntie Gilora." For the bilingual child the Kardasi words were automatic and effortless, something she suspected she would never achieve.

"Good evening, Nicco. Let me see."

He stepped into the room and stuck out his chest. " _Kiss Me, I'm Irish!_ ," Quark's latest St. Paddy's Day handout proclaimed. The adult tee shirt hung comically past his knees, more of a robe than a shirt for a two year old.

She switched back to Standard. Someday he'd know she spoke Kardasi—but not yet. Not until he was old enough to keep the secret. "You know this is grownup time, Nicky. You may talk to Auntie Gilora when we finish our visit. Please play with your friends—"

Mark McElroy and Bril'Vilix'Pran looked into the room. Bril's dorsal "wing" bracts were curled tight with frustration. Mark said, "Can you fix our side, Nicky? The blocks keep falling down."

"Sure, we can fix it."

_Oh, I like that:_ not _"I" can fix it._

They all ran back to his bedroom.

"Nicky plays very well with that boy," Gilora said. She sounded surprised.

"Don't tell me the Vilix'Pran kids' . . ." She couldn't think of a Kardasi word for 'brattiness'. "Don't tell me the Vilix'Pran children have been heard of even on Cardassia Prime."

Rejal looked puzzled, "No, I'm talking about the human child. It's just so strange to see Nicky playing with little boys."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, of course you don't have to follow our customs. Sometimes I just forget that Nicky is human too; he looks so Cardassian." She said it innocently, without a trace of suspicion in her voice. But Elim froze in place, his expression suddenly guarded.

"Well,” she said quickly, “he does have my eyes."

Actually, they were a lighter shade of gray—but at least they weren't Elim's startling blue. Nicky did bear a strong family resemblance to his parent. But he was only an inbred ZerKaiten, not a clone.

"And he reminds me _so much_ of my father. He even has his smile."

"Auntie Gilora, come look. We made a Promenade."

"I'm coming, Nicco." She walked down the hall and went into Nicky's room.

"An excellent save," Elim whispered. "I'm afraid she caught me by surprise. That won't happen again." He looked curious, "I've never heard you speak of your father. What is he like?"

She shrugged, "How would I know?"

***

"I hear they've sent you a lot of information on palace protocol. Only three months to go now, right?" Quark entered her holosuite payment and set the padd down on his desk. "There you go, all paid up." He frowned, "I've talked to Winn; she used to come to the station all the time. Believe me, it's not that big of a thrill."

"But being granted an audience does impress the Bajorans. Remember: 'Friends in high places are good for business.'"

"Huh! Pretty smart for a female." He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk, "Now you'll make the best impression at this first contact if you don't say much. Just ask for her advice, then shut up and let her do—"

The office door opened and an adolescent Ferengi girl in a simple brown dress looked in, "Cousin Quark, could I please speak to you?" Her voice was tentative, tremulous.

"Out!" he yelled. "Get out of my bar, Sildy! How many times do I have to tell you? We don't serve _clothed_ Ferengi females. Tell my mother to stop sending you in here!" After the first glimpse, Quark kept his gaze carefully averted from his cousin; his face and scalp had turned a delicate shade of pink.

"But I don't want to be a customer," she whispered. "Auntie Ishka heard that one of your waiters quit this morning. And I just wondered if . . . if the job was still open?"

"Not for _you_ it isn't! You want a job—ask my mother to give you one in Ishka's Happy Hobbies. _This_ is a _respectable_ establishment! Now, _get out_!"

Sildy blushed and backed out of the office.

Quark looked back at her, "Now . . . What was I saying?"

"You were explaining the finer points of diplomacy."

*

After all the usual crises of food and flowers and holo-photography—after all of Elim's frantic sewing—the big day was finally here. She stood with Elim and Julian, a small but sincerely happy bridal party, and watched Parzin Asha walk the wedding labyrinth with her head held high and her eyes shining. Left to right, right to left, the pretty Cardassian/Bajoran girl paced. Bradley Hudgens mirrored her walk on his side of the pattern. The grassy pathways led to the center, where the human priestess in her golden robes waited. Appropriately for this Gaian ceremony, the bride and groom wore green and the holo-setting was a May meadow dappled with Canadian wildflowers.

How handsome Elim was in that tux. It surprised her that it suited him so. Some people would look ludicrous in an alien race's formal wear, but he looked wonderful.

She glanced across the circle at the groom's family. Bradley's sister was wearing a dress even more provocative than the one she'd worn to the wedding rehearsal. The rehearsal she'd spent flirting with Julian—which just might explain why Yolanda had not come with him today. She assumed they'd had another fight.

The guests who stood around the perimeter of the circle—her other Cardassian/Bajoran employees, the Hudgens' friends and fellow merchants—wore a myriad of formal styles: some familiar, some alien.

The young couple would be leaving for business school on Proxima Centauri C tomorrow. Asha was joining both Bradley's family and the family's growing mercantile firm. A great leap of faith into the unknown.

Julian shot another glance toward the now hidden holosuite exit. Elim whispered, "Try to relax, Doctor; the news reports did say 'only minor injuries." Bashir still looked distracted.

Asha and Bradley had reached the center of the pattern now. They stood before the priestess, hands clasped, gazing into each other's eyes. A wedding labyrinth wasn't a maze, she reflected, with false turns and dead ends. If you followed the pattern, you _would_ meet in the center. Your path—despite all its twists and turns—was leading you home.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the loving embrace of Gaia, our Mother Earth"—

Elim watched in rapt attention, taking in every detail of the alien ritual. She wondered if it satisfied some deep Cardassian longing for formality and scripted ceremony.

Yes indeed, he looked incredibly attractive in that tuxedo. She smiled. Perhaps this holo-setting was defective. This seemed like _awfully_ warm weather for May.

—"I pronounce that they are wife and husband. You may kiss the groom." And then Asha and Bradley were kissing, while the wedding guests sighed their approval.

*

She looked around the corridor outside the holosuites. They might have a minute alone before the other guests started down to the bar for the reception. "You were almost late for this," she said softly. "Is something wrong?"

"I was working on our problem with . . . a certain surgeon. I'm afraid I lost track of the time."

"If he has to learn one of your secrets, find one of his. Everyone has _something_ they don't want divulged."

He pulled back and stared at her, "My dear Devlin! There is hope for you yet!"

She took one quick step closer. "I am not Julian. Do _not_ patronize me." Oh, he even _smelled_ good.

"Would anyone notice," he whispered, "if we left this reception early?"

*

Sisko and Dax stepped out of the runabout with scowls on their faces. He moved quickly to the captain's side, held the small scanner up to the bruise on his cheek.

Sisko said, " _Doctor_ ," and started to brush past him and Kira.

"Yes, I am. Hold still and let me do my job."

Sisko sighed and endured the quick examination.

"Well," Dax said, "so much for 'peace talks' with the Akoremites."

What the Bajoran media had dubbed the "Spring Festival Talks," had deteriorated rapidly. The first day brought pictures of a smiling Captain Sisko shaking hands with a stone-faced Vedek Treshette on the steps of the Kai's Palace, with Winn beaming her approval over them.

But it was all downhill from there, ending in this morning's Akoremite demonstration that smashed some palace windows and got Sisko struck by a rock. Whether that was a deliberate attack or just an accident was anybody's guess.

He took a look at the tricorder readout, clicked off the instrument. "You'll be fine, sir. But run a regenerator over that contusion as soon as you can."

Sisko started across the runabout bay. The rest of them fell in behind him, hurrying to keep up.

"We had such high hopes for this meeting," Kira said, "even if it was Winn's idea. So what was the trick; what did she do to wreck it?"

"This time, Major, I don't think Winn did anything wrong. In fact she went out of her way to be helpful and conciliatory. She had a lot invested in these talks. She's putting up a brave front, but believe me, she's scared."

"So what will the Bajorans do now?" he asked. "Bajor is pretty much a de facto theocracy; how can they function with all this sectarian strife?"

"Doctor, I think the Bajorans are about ready to give up on Winn and look to the civil government for help. I think they're waiting to see what First Minister Shakaar will do."


	22. Chapter 22

Julian came to his door in a brown and white striped rugby shirt, khaki pants and tan loafers. It was a nice look for him. But then anything was a welcome change from the ubiquitous uniforms.

"Hi, come on in." He stepped back from the door and waved her past him. "You said you had something important to ask me?"

She walked in, "Yes, I wanted— "What is _that_?"

A tangled conglomeration of brackets, bolts and copper colored tubes covered his coffee table, his couch and a good portion of the surrounding floor.

"Algolian temple chimes." He cleared a space for them on the couch. "It was a present for Yolanda. She said to send it back."

She sat down, "Oh, Julian. I'm so sorry to hear that."

Frankly, she didn't know what he'd ever seen in her former tuba instructor. She assumed the woman was competent at her job in Environmental Control, but she was a complete airhead otherwise. Maybe she was good in bed—if she ever stopped talking long enough to _do_ anything.

"It just seems like such a shame to take it all apart again." He sat down beside her, "But you said you had something important to discuss."

"Julian, I've been thinking about this for a long time, since before Nicky's birth. I'm going to ask you for a very great favor, something that could change your whole life. Please take some time to think it over. If your answer is no, I will understand. I will not be upset."

"All right. What is it?"

"This station can be a dangerous place. Who knows what violence will break out next? And I am, legally, Nicky's only family. What if something happens to me? I do believe Elim would care for him as long as possible. But he may return home someday and there is no place for Nicky on Cardassia.

"I've discussed this with Elim and he agrees with my decision. Will you allow me to file the forms that would make you Nicky's legal guardian if I should die, or become incapacitated?" She held up a hand, "You don't have to give me an answer now, think it over first."

"Devlin! You are my friend. Garak is my friend. _Of course_ I'd take Nicky if anything happened to you. I am deeply honored that you would entrust him to me."

It was exactly what she'd expected him to say. But she still felt a great sense of relief. Because if Elim's little scheme didn't work, they might very well end up in a Bajoran prison.

_*_

Garak strolled along the early morning Promenade, lost in thought. Another ship had joined the Royalist fleet; he should be thrilled. But that also meant one more stolen ship to hide. One more renegade to refuel and resupply from the few depots that would look the other way—while selling them inferior fuel and defective parts.

" _Eid Mubarak,_ Mr. Garak," a cheerful voice called out from the replimat.

The station's postal carrier was sitting there with a carafe, a mug and a tall stack of pastries. "Last night the new moon rose over Ankara. That's good enough for me." He waved a pudgy hand at the platter, "Have some baklava; help me end my fast."

"Well, if it's a _tradition,_ Mr. Yilmaz . . ."

He walked up the steps, took a seat and selected a pastry. "And how are you today? Have you heard anything more from your Pakled friend?"

"Oh yes, I finally heard from Fizwomp—his semi-wife is expecting another little Fizwomp."

Then he sighed. "But he's _still_ asking me about these chairs. I don't know why he's so sure I own them." He poured himself another cup of coffee. "Well, it was an odd little mix-up, but I'm glad we met.

"The strangest friendships form on this station. Have you ever noticed that, Mr. Garak?"

*

Bashir walked into his office and saw the message symbol flashing on his comm. "Computer, play message."

The glamorous Miss Audrey Hudgens appeared on the screen: dressed in a low-cut blue dress that matched her eyes and left very little to the imagination.

"Oh, Doctor, I just heard about you and Yolanda. What was she _thinking_ —letting you get away like that? Oh, _please . . ._ let me buy you a drink and try to cheer you up."

He thought about it. He didn't have to think for very long.

*

But, my child, you are in possession of stolen property. I fear I must alert the proper authorities." Elim's expression somehow conveyed a false kindliness, thinly layered over anger and menace. And he had Kai Winn's voice inflections down pat.

"Alerting the civil authorities will bring this matter to the attention of First Minister Shakaar. My client has no objection to bypassing Your Eminence and dealing with him instead."

"Good, good. But sit back and relax your shoulder muscles; there's still some tension showing. Remember, if Winn makes you become angry or defensive—she gains the upper hand." He leaned back in his couch and stretched. "All right, what if she says she doesn't deal with agents, only with principals?"

"Then perhaps First Minister Shakaar would be willing to speak with me. I do thank you for your valuable time.' And then I get up and walk out."

"If she makes some counteroffer?"

"My client's terms are not open to negotiation, Your Eminence."

"If she flatly refuses to deal?"

"I'm sure First Minister Shakaar . . . et cetera, et cetera."

"And what if _she_ suggests you offer our trade item to Shakaar?"

"I'd be impressed by the bluff, but I'd agree with her and walk out."

"If she says she needs more time to consider it?"

"I tell her, politely, that she has twenty-six hours to decide."

"Hmm. I think you've got it. Just remember your basic guidelines. Appear calm, confident that you are dealing from strength. Stress that you are not empowered to alter the deal. Do not improvise. Do not engage her in debate. Be courteous, let her save face, but be absolutely inflexible. And remember, threatening to deal with Shakaar instead is our greatest bargaining point."

"Which still troubles me. Won't she know our threats are a bluff? According to you, Shakaar is too 'politically naive,' by which I assume you mean too principled, to cut such a deal."

"Oh, he might deal if we just asked for money. But that would be a poor second choice for us and in fact we won't deal with him. But Winn can't be sure of that and she's not about to let him get the credit, especially not now." He shook his head, "I must admit, Shakaar has impressed me this past month. A 'religious freedom' bill? Winn must _feel_ her power slipping away."

He stood up, "Now I want you to return to your quarters and get a good night's sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you. And my dear—you are going to be absolutely wonderful."

He walked over and gave her a peck on the cheek. 

"Oh, wait, I almost forgot to give you your present." He pulled a flat, rectangular box out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

She opened it. Inside were a necklace and matching earrings: heavy metallic pieces in bronze and gold. She smiled.

"And wear that bronze colored outfit, the one you wore to your 'competency hearing.' Let it remind you that even the good captain is no match for you—and that Winn has no idea what an irresistible force is about to hit _her._ "

*

"Oh, _Julian_ , you're late _again,_ " Audrey said with a pout. She had such a cute little pout.

She walked out of her quarters and started down the hall with him. "Did Quark have the holoprogram you wanted? And why _are_ you late?"

"One moonlit tropical beach, coming up. And I'm sorry I'm late; I'm afraid I got distracted in Quark's. Everyone's watching the news feed from Bajor—Shakaar may finally have enough support in the Council of Ministers to bring his proposal to a vote. Maybe within the next few days."

"All right, that's good. But do you really want to talk about boring old politics?" She held her robe open, exposing a few scraps of fabric and a spectacular body. "Don't you like my new swimsuit?"

"Oh, I do. I most certainly do."

She gave him a pleased smile and they continued down the corridor.

Well . . . she just wasn't _interested_ in very much beyond her family's stores, or the shifting currents of a mercantile world he knew very little about.

At least she was interested in _him,_ for the moment.

She didn't talk his ears off.

And she never, ever, played the tuba!

*

_I must be out of my mind._

She stopped pacing and dropped into her armchair. _Tomorrow_ , she had to march into the Kai's Palace and convince the most powerful person on Bajor to join a Cardassian conspiracy.

Oh, well, all in a day's work for an "irresistible force" like herself.

If things went wrong . . . There was no telling what a Bajoran court might do. Even if she was only an accessory after the fact.

She'd climbed up from the depths of despair, built a new life. She had a child depending on her! And yet, she was going to do this. No matter how apprehensive she was.

And why? Because finding a base for Dukat and Hovar's ragtag fleet would give the Royalists a foothold in the Cardassian power struggle. Which would hasten the day when Elim could finally return home, trailing clouds of glory. Which meant that she would lose him!

Oh, that had been understood from the very beginning. Still, what wonderful irony.


	23. Chapter 23

As she crossed the audience chamber with the orange-robed prylar, she noted how carefully the room had been designed. The abnormal length, the height of the gilded ceiling, the towering clerestory windows were calculated to humble any supplicant. If she didn't know the palace was ancient, she'd think the Cardassians built it.

There was one incongruous thing: Winn was not sitting on the throne at the end of the room, but on an overstuffed settee in one corner. A settee, a chair and a small table. Just as in the holophoto the palace had sent out. A temporary nook where Winn could make her honored guest feel right at home, until their ten minutes were up. The staged "informality" reminded her of her meetings with Sisko and almost made her smile.

When they reached the kai, the prylar said, "Your Eminence, please permit me to introduce Miss Devlin, the co-owner of Bajorcraft." Seen this close, Kai Winn looked older than she did in the news clips. But she was a handsome woman still, with an aura of power that enveloped her like a mantle.

"Oh, Prylar Yeditt, I _know_ who _this_ is!" The kai rose to her feet and gave her a quick, perfunctory hug, "I have heard so much about your work with our orphans, my child." And of course she had. This prylar must brief her on each visitor, probably just before they were admitted. Good staff work.

Yeditt bowed deeply to the kai and hurried away, disappearing through an inconspicuous door at the back of the chamber.

Winn waved her toward the chair, "Do sit down, Miss Devlin. And tell me how I can help you." She took her seat on the settee again: hands folded in her lap, back ramrod straight, the very picture of ecclesiastical dignity.

She walked to the table, unfastened her necklace and laid it down. Then she turned to Winn. "Your Eminence, I will be at the Hotel Fairview for the next two days. Of course I am at your disposal at any time, day or night." Then she gave a brief bow and walked out.

*

Garak heard familiar voices and looked out at the Promenade. Bashir and Miss Berkuta were just walking by, chatting. She said something in an arch tone and Julian laughed. That sounded like the punchline to the Vorta joke. The Vorta joke was spreading through the station like wildfire.

He'd skipped lunch with the doctor today; he was simply too nervous to eat. Although staying in his shop might have been a bad idea. It was so quiet today—and time seemed to pass so slowly. He stopped pretending to arrange the display of springball togs and went back to the workroom, where he could pace unobserved.

The preliminary meeting must be over by now. He was sure Devlin had handled it perfectly. But as for the actual negotiations . . . He wished he could ask her what Winn's reaction had been. Or just see if she was still at the hotel. If she wasn't there, the kai had already sent for her. But he wouldn't contact her; he didn't want a call traced back to him.

He must have gone _insane:_ to delegate something this important, to . . . _trust_ someone this much. This was quite unlike him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. That alien, that _amateur—_ had his fate in her hands.

*

She'd been back in her hotel room for just over an hour when the knock came at her door. Prylar Yeditt, with an invitation. The kai requested the pleasure of her company at a private luncheon.

They went out a service entrance, took a ground vehicle with tinted windows for the short ride to the palace, entered the grounds through a side gate and left the vehicle parked behind an outbuilding.

Yeditt led her away from the palace itself and further into the extensive gardens. As they walked along the neatly swept paths, she reviewed her "basic guidelines."

_Appear confident. Don't improvise. If Winn gets difficult, mention Shakaar._

Winn's choice of setting puzzled her, for a moment. Then she realized that this open space was at least safe from eavesdropping servants. They rounded a hedge filled with tiny, vaguely citrus-scented flowers and came upon a small lawn. In the middle of it was a table covered with a white linen cloth and set with fine porcelain and crystal. Two people sat there, talking quietly.

Yeditt bowed to the kai, "Miss Devlin, Your Eminence." Then he discreetly withdrew: disappearing around the hedge and walking away.

Winn looked up at her and smiled. "Ah, Miss Devlin. I am so glad you could join us today. And my other guest tells me you two have met before; how nice."

The other luncheon guest stood up and turned to greet her. As always, he towered over her. "Good afternoon, Miss Devlin. It's nice to see you again."

"Do have a seat, my child," Winn said with a smile of surpassing sweetness. "I believe you have something important to tell First Minister Shakaar and me?"

*

Sisko had called another unscheduled staff meeting. At least this time he didn't seem angry. He assumed that meant this was not about the Detapa Council, for a change.

"Starfleet Command has just received a fascinating report from Commander Worf. Until they decide to make this information public—it is for your ears only.

"The captain of a Lissepian merchant ship told Worf she had encountered a Cardassian troop ship near the Malgar system. It seemed to be having problems with its impulse drive. But when she offered assistance, the Cardassians refused it. Worf left his other ships on their regular patrol and took the _Defiant_ to investigate. He tracked down the troop ship and it _was_ the _Iron Fist._ But when the _Defiant_ hailed it, the Cardassians fired on them. The _Defiant_ returned fire and it was prevailing—until another ship suddenly decloaked in the middle of the battle. It held off the _Defiant_ long enough for the _Iron Fist_ to escape. Then it cloaked again and, presumably, also fled the area."

The captain paused and took a sip of his iced coffee.

He took the cue, "The reappearance of the _Iron Fist_ is intriguing, but I assume the 'fascinating' news is the identity of this cloaked ship."

"It was a Klingon vessel, Doctor. A _captured_ Klingon vessel. It was Dukat."

_Dukat!_

There was an exclamation of surprise from every person at the table—but one. "I knew it!" Kira snapped.

Sisko looked at her, "You did?"

"Well, I _should_ have known it. If there's something underhanded going on, you can bet Dukat's behind it."

Bashir smiled, "I thought that was Garak."

"All right then, something underhanded and military."

Dax had been looking thoughtful through all of this. "Since the _Avenger_ and the _Iron Fist_ disappeared, the Cardassians have also had ten smaller ships go missing. Benjamin, do you suppose _all_ of them are in league with Dukat?"

"It seems a distinct possibility, Old Man."

"But in league to do what? Why are they just skulking around? What are they waiting for?"

*

Greeting Shakaar and Winn, taking her seat, accepting a cup of deka tea—gave her just a few minutes to decide on her next move.

Her mind raced. Had Winn foreseen her most probable threat and decided to call her on it before the negotiations even began? But if Winn was bringing Shakaar in on the deal, she must be willing to share the credit. Could Elim have been that wrong about her? In any case, the original "script' was useless now; she would have to improvise, quickly.

She heard Elim's voice in her mind, " _Do not improvise._ "

_Shut up, Elim._

Shakaar passed the bread tray to her.

Wait. This was a direct, unsubtle man. If he knew what was at stake here, wouldn't he get right to the point, not take time for all the social niceties? She took a piece of bread, spread some _hala_ butter on it. All right, Winn hadn't told him anything. She was just signaling that she wouldn't have Shakaar used against her. That she _would_ share the credit, if necessary.

And the kai was assuming that she would keep this conversation innocuous, then simply report the new development to her principal and ask for further instructions.

No. She couldn't let Winn control this. She had to play some other card and she had to play it _now_.

"Well, my child," Winn said, "what is it that you want to tell us?"

And she suddenly realized that there was only one card left.

"It occurred to me," she said quietly, "that our medical auxiliary has both Siskon and Akoremite volunteers now, and that working together for a higher cause has engendered a mutual respect. So what I have in mind is a similar organization, here on Bajor. And _immediately_ after this luncheon, I will also contact _Vedek Treshette_ to discuss this with the Akoremites."

Winn flushed with anger, "Do you think that is wise, my child?"

"I'm sure the vedek would be very interested in what I have to offer."

Winn leaned back in her chair and gave her mouth a delicate pat with her napkin. "Well, perhaps you are right. Now, do tell us all about your little project. I'm afraid the First Minister must leave right after our luncheon: affairs of state, you know." She gave Shakaar the most insincere smile she'd ever seen. But perhaps you could stay a bit longer? I would love to show you the palace gardens; the summer flowers are quite lovely."

_Got you!_

*

Winn waited until they reached the center of a great stretch of open lawn, then she stopped in her tracks. She reached into her robes, pulled out the necklace and held it out on the palm of her hand. She pointed at the narrow bronze piece that hung as a pendant from the middle of the chain.

" _That_ is one door hinge from the ark that holds the Orb of Serendipity. The Last Orb: the one we never recovered from the Cardassians. How did that damn tailor get it and what does he want for it?"

"I am not at liberty to divulge the name of my client—"

"He was Obsidian Order and you're sleeping with him. _Of course_ he's your principal. What does he want?"

"I had assumed," she said mildly, "that some truths could simply go unspoken. And my principal will be happy to return your property. All he asks in exchange is the right to choose which order of monks will guard it now."

"What?"

"We want the Order of Righteous Solitude to be the orb's permanent guardian. We want _all_ the monks brought home from your agricultural settlement in the Tyrian system."

"The monastery and it's vineyards _are_ the settlement. The system is so remote, no one else has ever chosen to live there. And if I bring the monks home, the planet will be uninhabited once again. _That's_ what he wants: a deserted outpost—with a communications array, a private space dock, repair facilities _and_ a large reserve of fuel. In the border region between the Cardassian Union and Bajoran space."

The kai glared at her. "I am capable of many things. Giving the Cardassians a ready-made base, on our border, is _not_ one of them."

"But think of the prestige you will gain from recovering the last orb. And then the prophets might speak to you through it. They might tell you that Akorem was a false emissary. Or that Shakaar is leading Bajor in the wrong direction. You would regain control—instantly."

"Miss Devlin, this discussion ends right here unless you tell me, honestly, what the Cardassians want with Tyria IV."

It was a gamble, but the kai had more to lose from exposure than they did. "My principal is involved in an _internal_ Cardassian power struggle. He simply needs a base of operations, away from the normal transit routes. And may I point out: conflict among the Cardassians will turn their attention away from external matters—like Bajor."

Winn was starting to waver; she could see it in her eyes.

She stepped back into a less confrontational stance and softened her voice, "Your Eminence, I know what the return of this sacred artifact would mean to your people—"

"Oh, _do_ you! What would a _human_ know about _faith_? The vast majority of you acknowledge _nothing_ higher than your own egos!"

"Oh, don't count me among that number. When I consider the clockwork perfection of the universe, I know there must be a clockmaker. And I believe he set everything in motion—and then he walked away."

She smiled, "But surely, in any sort of universe, two _practical_ women can come to . . . an understanding."

*

Elim walked into her office just as her secretary was walking out with an awkward armful of data padds. Borkle gave a panicked little hop to one side and dropped one of the padds.

"Oh! Mr. Garak! Excuse me!"

Elim retrieved the padd and placed it back atop the stack, "Please excuse _me_ , Mr. Borkle; it was entirely my fault."

Borkle twitched a nervous half-smile at him and scurried out the door.

"Really, Elim, you should come here more often and give poor Prinny a chance to get used to you."

"Might you leave a bit early today? I thought we could take a stroll before dinner." His voice was calm, casual—but a wild excitement shone in his eyes.

He waited until they were alone in the corridor, then he leaned close and said softly, "It just came over the news feed from Bajor. The beloved Kai Opaka has appeared to Winn in an orb vision and told her to bring the Order of Righteous Solitude home to Bajor. It seems the monks have some mysterious destiny, yet to be revealed."

"She's doing it," she whispered. "She's actually doing it."

"Dukat's ship is sitting off Tyria IV, cloaked. He reports that an evacuation does seem to be in progress. Once the planet is uninhabited, our troops will convert the monastery to an operational headquarters and begin refueling and ship repairs." He smiled at her, "Good work, my dear. Very good work."

She had never seen him look so happy; it felt wonderful.

"Dukat will send a private vessel to shuttle . . . the item to Bajor. I want you to accompany it. Don't let it out of your custody until it's safely delivered into Winn's hands." He smiled, "We must uphold our side of the bargain. Who knows, we might want to deal with Winn again some day—now that we know she _will_ deal."

"Oh, yes. Someone who can have 'sacred orb visions' at will—just might be a handy person to have around."

And they grinned at each other.

*

She was just about to leave her uncomfortable seat and head for the back of the Kobheerian shuttle, when Glinn Damar put the controls on autopilot and stood up.

"I'm going to the head," he said in Standard. "Don't touch the controls."

She said, "Of course I won't," and went back to her reading. She was beginning to wonder if she'd ever finish the damn book. Maybe Julian had a point, after all.

Once Damar was gone, she looked up and smiled. It was pretty evident who he was trying to model himself after. The swagger and the sneer were a bit overdone though. And he was just too young and brash to have Dukat's air of quiet menace. Maybe he'd get a better handle on the persona as he matured. Oddly enough, she rather liked Damar. In a sense, they were counterparts: the trusted lieutenants who carried out the scut work while the "masterminds" kept safely hidden.

She looked down at the padd again and sighed. Chapter Eighty-Seven . . .

In a few minutes, he walked back in.

She lowered the padd, "So is it there?"

He tried to bluff it out, "Is what there?"

"You went back to look at the orb. I assume Dukat told you to be sure it's really in there."

He stared coldly at her, "That's _Gul_ Dukat. And he doesn't trust your Garak."

"I beg your pardon: _Gul_ Dukat. Is it there?"

Damar shrugged, "Yeah, the Bajorans should be real happy." He sneered. "Superstitious peasants."

She wouldn't have phrased it quite so baldly, but she wasn't going to argue with him. She set the padd down, got up and headed for the hold.

"Where do you think you're going?"

She turned back and looked him in the eye, " _I_ am going to the 'head."

He thought it over. Then he shrugged again and took his seat.

She walked back to the cargo hold, took the shipping container out of its locker and set it on the deck. Then she pulled off its lid, lifted the ark out and gently set it down. Considering what Winn had paid for it, she wouldn't be very forgiving of damaged merchandise.

She sat down cross-legged in front of the ark and was amused to see that Elim—with the famous Cardassian attention to detail—had put a substitute hinge on the right-hand door. She assumed Winn would return the original before she "found" the ark.

She pulled open the doors and white light flooded out. Well, _something_ was in there.

Yes, there it was, a crystalline hourglass shape.

Oh, too bright. She narrowed her eyes.

That was better: the light was dimmer now.

The light was always too dim, the air was always too warm. She smiled; how many times had she thought that?

She took a firm grip on her cane, left the flagstone path and carefully crossed the lawn to sit in her favorite spot, the citizens bench at the base of the Glorious Heroes monument. She leaned back against the cool marble of the monument and closed her eyes, savoring the bearable warmth of early morning.

There was a sound of footsteps approaching from further up the path. Booted feet, of course; it was always booted feet. She opened her eyes and looked.

An eight man squad was headed her way. They were in full dress armor, complete with the wine red capes of the Cardassian Guard.

She allowed herself another small smile, sat up very straight and folded her hands in her lap. She would wait here, calmly, and let them come to her.

She knew they were bringing either life or death. In this place, death always seemed more likely. And if it was death, she would face it with dignity. She would do nothing to disgrace her family. 'Family is all.' But what a long strange path she had walked; to arrive at this place, this peculiar and pivotal moment—

—"out of it! _Now_!" Someone slapped her face.

She blinked and looked up at Glinn Damar, bending over her with such a panicked expression.

She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet.

"What happened?" he asked. "What did you see?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Store it away again."


	24. Chapter 24

Standing in the middle of the Promenade in sweaty gym clothes did _not_ enhance her carefully cultivated public image. But she wouldn't miss this announcement for the world; how would Winn handle it?

The Bajorans in the crowd stared at the public comm screen, every face bright with expectation. At the moment, it just showed the great mass of people gathered outside the Kai's Palace.

The daily "ladies' workout" had been in full swing when they heard running feet and excited voices outside the gym. Dax, Kira and Berkuta were out the door in a flash, ready to deal with another riot. Keiko and she followed, a bit more cautiously. But the Bajorans streaming down the hall looked ecstatically happy. One of Julian's medtechs, Mr. Dirgan, called out to Kira, "They think Winn's recovered the Last Orb!" Then they were swept up in the joyful tide and deposited here, in front of the public comm.

On the screen, a newscaster finally spoke. "It's the kai! The kai has just come out onto the West Balcony!" The camera drone zoomed in as Winn and a group of vedeks appeared, high above the crowd. As the people of the capital began to cheer, the Bajorans on the Promenade drew closer to the screen.

Winn held her arms out over the crowd, then waited, frozen in that pose, until they quieted. "My dear children," she began in ringing tones, "the glory of Bajor has been restored. The _honor_ of Bajor has been restored. The last stain of our long disgrace has been washed away." She looked behind her and beckoned; a monk in pale blue robes walked out onto the balcony, carrying the ark.

"The Orb of Serendipity"—

Winn's voice was drowned out by a great rolling wave of sound from the crowd beneath the balcony. It began as random shouts and cheers, then crystallized into an impassioned, surging chant.

"Winn! Winn! Winn! Winn!"

On the Promenade, the stunned Bajorans mouthed it silently, many of them weeping with joy.

Winn raised her hands for quiet again. The crowd obeyed. "My children, the Prophets themselves have returned the Last Orb to us, and in the most extraordinary and miraculous way."

_This should be interesting_.

"Last night I was walking in the palace gardens, too troubled by my worries about the Akoremite apostasy to sleep"—

There was a gasp from the Bajorans on the Promenade at the word "apostasy." She saw several of her Akoremite employees look around fearfully and start to back out of the crowd.

—"when our beloved Kai Opaka appeared to me yet again, bringing me the wisdom and guidance I confess I have so sorely needed. She bore a message from the Prophets. I must make it _clear_ to you that Benjamin Sisko is their _only_ Emissary. And I must override my natural inclination toward mercy, and . . . _cauterize_ the bleeding wound in the Body of True Believers.

"Then Opaka disappeared in a great flash of light and in her place stood—the Orb of Serendipity, the _last_ missing Orb." She pointed at the ark, " _There_ is the Last Orb. _There_ is proof that the Prophets still cherish us, asking only that we follow their counsel."

Winn cast her gaze down and gave a theatrical sigh, then she looked up again—directly at the news cameras. "Early this morning, I sent the Disciplinary Prylars to arrest Vedek Treshette for the crime of apostasy. It was my intention to bring him before a tribunal of the Vedek Assembly. But some misguided soul had warned him and his guilty conscience assigned its own punishment. When the prylars arrived at his home—they found Treshette dead by his own hand, the bottle of poison still clutched in his lifeless fingers."

There was another gasp from the crowds, in the palace square and on the Promenade.

"Prophets help us," Kira whispered, "she had him killed."

"My children, the Prophets' wishes are clear. We must be _one people_. We can no longer tolerate destructive dissent—or the introduction of dangerous, foreign ideas."

There was an ugly murmur of agreement from the crowd beneath the balcony.

"But we must forgive those who falsely claim that Akorem Laan was the Prophets' emissary. I beg you, no matter _how_ grave the danger they pose to us, do _not_ attempt to drive them out by force."

Kira glared at the screen, "Damn you; you're putting the idea in their heads." The station's security forces were quietly stepping between the little groups of Akoremites and Siskons, ready to stop any trouble before it started.

_Ah,_ " _Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the dogs of war._ "

With _one speech_ , Winn had reasserted her power over Bajor—and turned her people against both the Akoremite dissenters _and_ Shakaar's religious toleration bill. What had Elim called her? One of the smartest politicians he'd ever seen? The woman might be evil, but she was _brilliant_.

*

Garak held Niccolo's hand and wound his way through the crowd of refugees. They barely noticed him. How odd, he thought, to find himself utterly ignored on a Promenade overflowing with Bajorans.

In the week since Winn's speech, every ship arriving from Bajor, passenger shuttle or cargo vessel, had been filled to capacity with Akoremites fleeing for their lives. Rioting mobs, arson, mass lynchings—given Winn's "proof" that the Prophets favored the Siskons, even Bajorans who'd ignored the Akoremites now felt compelled to turn on them and drive them out.

And, in what he considered a neat bit of irony, their closest refuge lay _here_ , under the protection of the man they'd dubbed the "false emissary." While the captain himself was on Bajor, pleading their case to Winn, to the Vedek Assembly, to the populace. Valiantly _trying_ to stop the violence.

The station's Starfleet personnel were doing their very best to care for the refugees. The exiles had quickly filled Transient Lodging; the overflow was camped here, on the Promenade. Where they stood in long lines for food, or medical attention, or a bathroom. Or tried to calm crying, traumatized children. Or sat atop whatever possessions they'd managed to salvage and stared into space. And they were all much too concerned with their own problems to pay any attention to one Cardassian man or one small "half Cardassian" boy.

Nicky pointed, "Look, Coopa, there's Matthew and Mark." Mrs. McElroy and her sons were waiting outside the infirmary. As always, the children were well groomed and neatly dressed. Today they wore identical khaki jumpsuits in a quasi-military style.

She greeted him with her usual nervous politeness. "Oh, Mr. Garak, thank you for allowing Nicky to join us today." She lowered her voice, "We're going to help hand out hygiene kits to these poor people. Then we'll rent a holosuite and run the Brigade cook-out program for our lunch." She peered anxiously at him, "I hope those activities are all right for Nicky. Of course, he's really much too young for Boys Brigade. But Matthew's real squad back home had a 'Bring Your Little Brother Day.'"

He gave her his most charming smile, "It sounds like Niccolo will spend a constructive morning, and in very good company. Thank you for inviting him." She smiled back, relieved that she hadn't accidentally violated some alien taboo. He left Nicky with her and started back to his shop.

_Boys_ Brigade. That did trouble him. He was happy to have Niccolo raised in Devlin's culture. The more he "acted human" the more his fellow Cardassians would think they saw something human in his appearance. It was a universal truth: people usually saw what they expected to see. And the Federation _was_ a civilization, of sorts.

But, due to the current demographics of this station, he was also being raised with mostly young males as playmates. The McElroy boys, the Vilix'pran children—who were at least nominally "male"—and Kirayoshi O'Brien. It was unnatural. Nicky should be playing with little girls—learning to identify with them, think like them. This felt like the child was a test subject in some weird psychological experiment. It made him increasingly uncomfortable.

Of course there was always Molly O'Brien. She was . . . about eight now? Quite a gap in their ages, though not the gap it would be between two human children. At two and a half, Nicky was easily the equivalent of a bright five-year-old human. And Molly was certainly feminine enough; he'd heard humans tell her doting father what a "little heart breaker" she was going to be. She _was_ a pretty child . . . although he did wonder if her mother's temper lurked beneath that delicate exterior.

But she was the only female child on the station suitable as a companion for Nicky. Well, he'd simply have to arrange things so that Niccolo spent less time with the Vilix'pran and McElroy boys and more time in Molly's home.

There was no help for it. He'd have to start cultivating the O'Briens.

*

Devlin pushed her chair back from her desk and gave up. Just gave up.

There was _no_ record of any scientific research on the orbs. Not in any file, any repository. Nothing in all the vast collection of the Library of Bajor.

Oh, she could always ask Prylar Vot.

Who would undoubtedly quote some Bajoran version of, "There are things that man was not meant to know."

*

"Amnesty!" Kira spit the word out like a curse. She had stomped into Sisko's office. Now she stood in front of the couch, glaring down at them, her arms folded and her face flushed.

Sisko looked up at her, "Do come in, Major."

Kira blinked, then the flush deepened, "Oh, you're having your meeting. I'm sorry, sir; I forgot what day it was. But I just heard, and I had to tell someone!"

"If you don't mind, Captain, I'd like to hear the news." She looked at Kira, "Amnesty?"

"It's Winn. She's declared an amnesty toward all Akoremites still on Bajor. If they renounce their belief in Akorem Laan! But only for the next two weeks, until the Autumn Days of Remorse. After that, anyone who hasn't accepted Winn's terms will be arrested."

"I doubt there are many Akoremites left on Bajor," Sisko said. "Though some are still here on the station. With this first group accepted by New Teswith we've finally cleared the Promenade, but the rest are caught in the bureaucracy." The pain showed in his eyes. "Those poor frightened people."

"Oh, _frightening_ them is the whole idea. Get rid of the dissidents by turning the mob on them; then pretend to show mercy to some pitiful remnant. Well, that's one way to solve the 'Akoremite problem,' isn't it!"

_Yes. It is_.

And how many _more_ Bajorans would have died in sectarian conflicts in the future, if Winn hadn't been tough enough to settle the matter quickly and decisively?

"And she did it by _using_ the Orb. How could even Winn be that— _evil_?"

Was Winn evil, or just realistic and pragmatic? And who was Kira to call another person evil? How many innocent Cardassian civilians had she killed during her years with the "glorious resistance?"

How could some people divide their actions into neat little compartments? "What I did in the war." "What I really am." While others could pinpoint the exact moment when they _knew_ they had stepped into the shadows—and knew that they would not step out again.

*

When the call finally came, he left Ensign Matapang standing there in a half-basted jacket and dashed out of his shop. He ran down the Promenade, passed Miss Patel and Towset's nephew—who were too entranced by each other to even notice him—flew by some Bolians hanging _Oiet Brog_ decorations and swerved around a clutch of beta shift nurses heading for the infirmary.

When he reached Beekim's Toys and Games he slowed to a stroll and peered through the display window.

Where was O'Brien? He couldn't see . . .

Ah, the teenage clerk was pointing toward the back. He went in and picked up a shopping basket. When he spotted O'Brien he assumed a bewildered expression, entered the same aisle, plucked a container of Andorian marbles off the shelf and pretended to read the label. From the corner of his eye he saw O'Brien start to sidle out the other end of the aisle.

"Mr. O'Brien, good afternoon."

O'Brien froze in place, looking uncomfortable. "Er . . . good afternoon."

"Oh, Chief, I wonder if . . . if I might trouble you for some advice?"

"Advice?"

"I want to buy a plaything for Niccolo, something we can enjoy together. I understand that sort of shared activity will help us to 'bond.' Your family seems very close and loving. As an experienced father, what would you buy to share with your children?"

As he'd anticipated, O'Brien was both touched and flattered. The human promptly launched into a lecture on the value of "traditional" toys.

A short while later, he was standing outside the store with a "starter kit" for a "model railroad." The clerk had a few extra strips of latinum in his pocket. And O'Brien now had a slightly better opinion of _him_. It was a start.

*

"We've finished the preliminary investigation, Captain. Lieutenant Berkuta can fill everyone in now." Dax turned to the woman sitting next to her. "Lieutenant?"

Bashir looked down the table at the subspace communications officer. If Margo was nervous about speaking at a senior staff meeting it didn't show; she seemed perfectly at ease.

"A few days ago," she began, "Lieutenant Vardell detected a coded message from the Gamma Quadrant, carefully concealed and piggybacked on a routine report from our listening post. I have a cryptanalysis team working on the cipher. It seems to be some combination of a Caesar Shift and a Vigenére, and the algorithms change with each message."

Sisko leaned forward, " _Each_ message?"

"Once we knew what to look for, we realized that someone in the Gamma Quadrant was using our subspace relay through the wormhole to communicate with someone in this quadrant, on a regular basis. The receiving party could be on a planet or a fixed installation, even on a ship if they know our comm networks well enough. We can triangulate their location once they send a reply. So far though, they seem to be maintaining radio silence. As for the sender in the Gamma Quadrant . . . "

"The Dominion," said Kira.

"That does seem likely, Major."

The captain frowned, "Lieutenant, do _nothing_ that would let them know we're on to them. Cutting off this avenue would just make them find one we _aren't_ aware of. And I assume that the more messages you have, the easier it will be to decode this?"

"That's right, sir."

"Then you may go now. Tell your people to drop all other projects and concentrate on this. We have to find out what these messages are—and who they are going to."

"Yes, sir." She rose from the table and started for the door.

"And Miss Berkuta?"

She looked back at Sisko.

"Tell Mr. Vardell I said, 'Good job.'"

She flashed that endearing quirky smile, "Thank you, sir. I'll tell him."

*

Audrey Hudgens clicked the Plitchitt tile down on Devlin's dining table with a flourish. " _Plit_! Or was that a reverse _droble_?' I always forget. Oh, I'm just so _bad_ at this."

Julian gave her a kiss. "No you aren't. I think you're wonderful."

Bad at Plitchitt? Maybe. But very, very good at fishing for compliments. Bashir was developing a disturbing pattern of dating only . . . unsuitable women. First Yolanda, now Audrey.

She glanced at Leeta, whispering game strategy with Rom. There was the woman Bashir should have stuck with. She had a kind heart. And, underneath all the fluff and giggles, she was actually pretty bright. Look how quickly she'd come to her after that ad shoot.

_"But if I'm really famous I'm valuable to the company. I should be compensated for that, Devlin."_

Which was perfectly true—and she got her raise.

"I believe it is your play now, Mr. O'Brien," Elim said with a smile. He rose from the table, "Would anyone like some more tea?"

Both Julian and Miles asked for refills.

When Dax and Worf canceled, it had been Elim's idea to invite the O'Briens in their place. She hadn't known he liked the O'Briens. But she was glad Worf and Jadzia were taking some time for themselves while the task force resupplied. Being separated was a strain on their relationship; Dax had been unusually subdued lately.

The sound of children's voices came from Nicky's room. The O'Briens and she looked up, then they turned their attention back to the game.

Elim brought the cups of tea and sat down next to her again. He smiled at Keiko," Mrs. O'Brien, have I told you how very nice you look? That shade of blue is quite becoming to you."

"Oh, thank you." She glanced down at her dress, "I just picked this up on Bajor. I'd like to see what new things you have in, but I've just been too busy."

"Not more trouble with the whip trees."

She smiled, "No, I'm just shorthanded. My assistant has a cultural holiday. She can't work in the soil. To be exact: she wants to protect any nesting cobras."

"Cobras?"

"Well, there are no cobras in my botany lab, of course. But Ananda still wants to make the gesture: in her regional culture the snake is a symbol of wisdom and benevolence."

"But how delightful! After hearing the _same_ creation myth from Mr. Schepansky _and_ Mr. McElroy, I assumed all humans saw anything with . . . _scales_ as the embodiment of evil."

He looked at Miles, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "By the way, I _did_ discover just why your St. Patrick is so famous. I appreciate your not wanting to tell me. That was very thoughtful, thank you."

Miles blushed, "Oh, er, think nothing of it."

*

"Trouble?" said Dax. "No, not at all; Worf and I are getting along just splendidly."

Then she started to cry.

_Oh, no._

She found a box of tissues on Dax's bookshelf, between an astrolabe and a printed copy of _1001 Wowzer Party Gags_. She handed it to her and waited while she pulled herself together.

"He wants to volunteer for long-term exploration again. I think commanding the task force, being on the move, reminds him of how much simpler his life seemed back on the _Enterprise._ But I _know_ that life; I know what it does to so many single officers. And I can't go with him. Not now: not while Benjamin is still so torn up over the Akoremites.

"Oh, Devlin, you have no idea what starship duty is like. Everything is so impermanent, so . . . episodic. You just flit from adventure to adventure: no connections, no consequences. And you keep signing up again—until one day you see an _old man_ in the mirror, and you're all alone."

She was crying again. "I don't want that for Worf; I love him."

"You do love him."

"None of this would have happened if the Detapa Council could keep track of their own damned ships! There are twelve Cardassian ships missing now. Twelve! All out skulking around the sector with Gul Dukat! Damn him too, whatever game he's playing!"

_Wait . . ._

_What!_

Starfleet _knew_ that _Dukat_ was involved in the ship disappearances? Then they'd been keeping that knowledge confidential.

Really, Jadzia had been quite indiscreet to let that slip.


	25. Chapter 25

She saw Quark's cousin in her usual spot outside the bar, trying to hand her fliers to the patrons. She was speaking to a Craa'thid freighter crewman.

"This bar discriminates against female Ferengi," she said softly. "If you'd take just a minute—"

The Craa'thid clicked his mandibles in irritation, brushed past Sildy and went on into the bar.

"Good afternoon, Sildy. That's a pretty dress; is it new?" The poor little thing was in drab, shapeless blue today.

Sildy looked up at her and blushed, "Good afternoon, Miss Devlin. Thank you."

When she walked in, Broik spotted her and jerked a thumb back at the office.

Quark looked up from his desk, "Yes, yes! I _know_ my guild dues are late. My finances are a little tight right now."

"And a good afternoon to you too, Mr. Quark. Finances are tight all over; when can we expect payment?"

"When I make up all the latinum I lost on the Declarations Day Festival!"

"We didn't have a Declarations Day Festival."

"My point exactly. Sisko canceled it— _after_ I bought a Mars Dome holoprogram, had the artificial gravity reduced in the holosuites _and_ programmed my replicator with Martian beers!"

"Well, I don't think he wants to celebrate freedom and tolerance with _Bajorans_ right now. Not while they're so busy prosecuting Akoremites."

"Ha! _I_ could have told him about Bajorans."

"So you need another money maker. Hmm. Well, it's been winter on Bajor for the last month or so and it's early December on Earth. How about a 'Winter Wonderland' party?"

"How can 'winter' be a wonder land? It gets so cold the rain freezes! Winter is horrible."

"No, winter is fun. Have a special sale on winter drinks, things like hot toddies and mulled wine. And get some new winter holoprograms: skiing, ice skating. Decorate the bar all in white. Put up artificial white birch trees and hang lights shaped like icicles in them. Put in a fireplace. And a holo-effect of falling snow."

"Fake ice in fake trees? And _snow_ in my bar? You hew-mons are the weird—" He listened for a second, then he jumped up and rushed over to look out the office door.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't hear the dabo wheel— Damn it! I told them not to talk to her!"

He went tearing out. "You! Stop talking to that _freak_ in _clothing_ and get back to your dabo table!"

He popped back into the office. "Women! They always stick together!" He glared at her.

"Don't look at me. I'm a business owner too; I side with management."

*

"Now remember, Niccolo: today, when the class is over, you may walk back to the shop," he pointed down the Promenade, "all by yourself, like a big boy."

Nicky smiled, "Yes, Coopa."

"Hi, Nicky!" Foreman Julbrok's children joined Nicky at the door and they walked into the classroom together.

He shook his head. _His son,_ associating with _Bajoran_ children. Children from carefully selected families, to be sure. Still . . .

But Devlin had decided this was necessary, and when he'd really thought about it—her reasons did make sense.

He'd gone to her company daycare center, met the few employees willing to let their children stay an extra hour, one day a week, to take an art class with their employer's "Human/Cardassian" child. He stood at the front of the room, next to a poster of oddly "cute" Bajoran farm animals, and spoke humbly and with great sincerity. He spoke of his regrets about the Occupation, of his wish that Cardassians and Bajorans could build a better relationship now.

The parents had gazed suspiciously up at him from the small classroom chairs. And they were right to be suspicious. Oh, he had no objection to better relations between Cardassia and Bajor. But that wasn't what this was about.

Devlin planned to tell Nicky the truth about his conception sometime in late adolescence. Before adulthood, before the secret became _his_ burden. That day, that revelation, would be a terrible shock for Niccolo. To find that the human half of his supposed heritage was a lie—and that his fellow Cardassians would despise him even more without that lie.

The one essential thing was that Niccolo should not see himself as inferior or unnatural. And the only way to insure that, was to raise this Cardassian child more human than Cardassian. To give him that bone-deep conviction that _all_ sentient beings were born _equal_. And to prove they truly believed that, they must let Nicky associate with all the children on the station—including the Bajorans.

Of course _he_ didn't believe any such thing. But he could pretend to.

*

Bashir peeled off the ski sweater and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Oh, much better. Devlin kept her quarters so hot. Well, that was for Nicky. For Garak too, he supposed. He was here so often he practically lived here. And she'd kept the filtered Cardassian lighting. It looked like dappled sunlight on the dark green carpet. The effect was pretty, but still too dim.

He peered across the living room at Audrey. She looked so sweet, holding Nicky on her lap and reading him his bedtime story. When she came to a passage he'd memorized, Nicky would say the words before she did. Or maybe he was actually reading. He was almost three years old and he was a very bright little boy.

Audrey was being such a good sport. They'd just arrived at Quark's "Winter Wonderland" party when Devlin called, begging him to babysit. But Audrey didn't complain. She just came with him; got Nicky into his pajamas, cuddled and fussed over him.

Devlin had been pretty vague as to _why_ she suddenly needed a babysitter, only saying that Garak had called and asked her to come over. She'd had a _look_ in her eyes—half mischievous, half fevered—that told him a certain tailor was about to be extremely lucky.

He did not want to think about the lurid orgy that was undoubtedly taking place in Garak's quarters right now. He never let himself think about Garak and Devlin . . . together. Well, all right, maybe he'd thought about it once or twice.

It was a rather frightening thought.

*

Poor embarrassed Julian, he must be picturing all sorts of carnal gymnastics. But whatever he might be imagining, it certainly wasn't _this_.

Dukat was here.

Somehow, this wanted man—whom _any_ Bajoran would recognize—had docked at the station and made his way to Elim's quarters undetected. She was impressed despite herself.

Dukat was backed up by Glinn Damar, who was armed to the teeth. He was pacing back and forth, speaking rapid-fire Kardasi. He was mad and getting steadily madder. Elim responded, now and then, in a tone of bored toleration. He was angry too, but hiding it better.

She stood by his chair, giving Damar what she hoped was a cold and deadly stare. She had no idea if she looked properly threatening or just silly. She had tucked a stiletto into her garter when Elim called, though now she wondered just how much good that would do against Damar's disruptor pistol.

It pleased her that she could understand the Kardasi conversation. She was careful not to react though. Dukat would surely find out, eventually, that she spoke his language. But there was no point in enlightening him prematurely.

Their co-conspirator was insistent. They'd had their secret base for five months. It was time to get the heir—whoever he might be—hide him at the base, then announce his existence and declare the old monarchy the legitimate government. They needed the king: the people needed a symbol, a rallying point for their rebellion.

Elim's argument was, simply, that Dukat was jumping the gun. The time was not right for the massive insurrection the Royalists would need. If they struck before all the elements were in place, they would be defeated by the forces of the Detapa Council.

The meeting on Lissepia had been tense, but controlled and businesslike. Now she realized that must have been due to the presence of Gul Hovar. Without that restraint, Dukat bristled with anger, while Elim's icy control seemed calculated to goad him. If the long-suffering people of Cardassia were relying on these two to save them, they were in worse trouble than they realized.

The same thing seemed to occur to Elim; he sighed and held up his hand. "Dukat, this isn't getting us anywhere. I'll admit you're doing a good job with the military side of this. But my intelligence network tells me the time isn't—"

"I'm sick to death of this! What, _precisely_ , is your fabled network _doing_ for us? Stop spouting generalities and tell me one actual, authenticated bit of information they've given you!"

"Besides finding the king? Well, to give one example: their reports from Cardassia tell me you've revealed _your_ involvement in the ship disappearances. A prime example, I might add, of the damage your impatience can do."

_Ha! I told you about that, when Dax let it slip. Now I'm a source on Cardassia?_

"Then they also told you it was unavoidable. I couldn't let the _Iron Fist_ be captured; I had to decloak to help Hovar." He sneered, "A report from Cardassia? Or did your pretty doctor whisper the information in your ear one night?"

Elim chuckled, "We've had this conversation before, Dukat, over thirty years ago. And who I bed is still none of your concern. But no, Dr. Bashir doesn't betray classified information. The report was hardly necessary anyway. You bungled the situation so badly, it's become a subject of common gossip."

Dukat clenched his fists and took two quick strides toward Elim. Damar was right behind him. Elim was out of his chair in one fluid motion. She pushed up her skirt, put her hand on her knife.

Then Dukat stopped, and forced himself to step back. "Very well, I'll wait a little bit longer. But may I remind you: _I_ have a fleet of ships _and_ almost a thousand ground troops—and they are getting restless."

"Then use them! Take our colonies back from the Klingons. Win the colonists to our cause by _freeing_ them. Or hadn't that occurred to you?" He went to the door and when it opened he put his hand on the frame, pointedly keeping it open. " _You're_ a military man; go conquer something!"

Dukat gave him a withering look, but he did stroll over to the door, with Damar at his heels. He paused in the doorway, turned back and looked directly at her for the first time.

"I will give Garak this much," he purred, "he does have excellent taste. And I must make you go for your knife more often; you have _very_ pretty legs.

"Ah! You _do_ understand Kardasi. I rather thought you did."

*

Belor sat down beside her on the couch and handed the box to Nicky. "I'm sorry this is a bit late, Nicco. It's from Auntie Gilora too; she couldn't come this time." She smiled, "The best part of having an assistant: you send _them_ to all the boring seminars."

He plopped himself down on the floor and started to work the lid off the box.

"Nicky, what do you say to Aunt Ulani?"

"Thank you, Aunt Ulani."

The gift was a Cardassian doll in a teal ball gown, her hair styled in an elaborate bouffant. Nicky touched one tiny hand with his fingertip. "She's so pretty! Can I show Molly?"

"You may invite Molly over after my visit with Dr. Belor. Please play in your room now."

He grabbed up the box and left the room with a big smile. An expensive collector's doll seemed like an odd birthday present for a three year old, but apparently it was a big hit.

She replicated some red leaf tea and _besmet_ cake, Cardassian food for a Cardassian conversation, and they sat down at the table.

"I'm actually glad Gilora didn't come. There's something I want to ask you about, privately."

Ulani looked intrigued.

"It's about that former prefect, Dukat. I know Elim once testified against his father. I'd assumed that caused the trouble between them. But last month Elim made a passing reference to an argument they'd had 'over thirty years ago.' Do you know what that was about?"

Ulani chuckled. "Oh, yes; I've heard about it. It happened when they were college students. They were roommates, friends."

Friends? Yes—now that she thought about it—the relationship did feel like a broken friendship. That hatred was far too bitter to have started as mere indifference.

"Dukat invited Elim to his family home for the summer vacation. His three older sisters were living there while their husbands served off-planet. Of course they all wanted Elim—and each of them _did_ manage to seduce him." She smiled, "I don't suppose _any_ college boy is going to be very picky."

_All of them? Well, I'm sure he was adorable._

"And Dukat actually became _angry_! What did he expect? Elim wasn't just a male. And as a male, he was irresistible."

"Ulani, you just said Elim is a male, not a male. That makes no sense."

Belor looked puzzled. "No, I didn't. I said he was a _male,_ not a _male_."

She switched to Standard, "Listen carefully; they are two different words. 'Male' is _driou_. Now: _driouu._ Can't you hear the extra vowel?"

"Wait . . . you're saying that Elim belongs to some third gender?"

"Oh. I suppose that's one way to put it. We just think of them as males born without a _sithid_ gland. Only ordinary males have one. Not the _driouu'sch_ —the 'better males'—like Lord Garak and Niccolo."

_Better males? Interesting!_

"That gland secretes a hormone that causes extreme territoriality and aggressiveness. But a small portion of male children are born without it. Psychologically, they fall somewhere between male and female." She frowned, "Then humans don't have driouu'sch?"

"Oh, some humans are intersex or non-binary. But I'm still confused: he was 'irresistible' to them?"

"Well, we're still debating that one. One side thinks the driouu'sch must secrete some attractant pheromone. But I favor the psychological explanation. Cardassian women feel an overwhelming attraction to the driouu'sch because they're so much like us."

"Excuse me?"

Ulani looked perplexed, "Don't _you_ like people who are similar to you?"

_Not in my bed._

"I suppose so. Go on."

"Well, driouu'sch are pretty and sweet-natured. They like the same things many women do: you can actually _talk_ to them. They just understand us better—because they're so much _like_ us _._ "

She could feel the laughter bubbling up.

"Oh, no! He's a yellow-throated sneaker! _My Elim_ is a yellow-throated sneaker!"

"He's _what_?"

"That's . . . How do you feel about humans comparing other races to Earth fauna?"

Belor sighed. "Is this a snake story, or a lizard story?"

"A lizard story. The 'side-blotched' lizard—whose 'sneaker' males have a coloration that mimics the females. And they'll sneak into a regular male's harem and mate with all his females, while the poor sap thinks they're just one of the girls. Now doesn't that sound like Elim?"

"It sounds like all driouu'sch; they're also known as charming rascals. In fact, they can usually make anyone _like_ them, even most ordinary men. Oh, but we don't think of them as 'sneaking.' They play a necessary biological role. Cardassians marry for power and social status—and the number of 'acceptable' bloodlines is shrinking. The driouu'sch restore random variation to the gene pool, help to head off the effects of inbreeding. For example: Elim impregnated all three of Dukat's sisters well before the end of summer—"

"He got them all pregnant!"

Ulani blinked, "Well, yes, of course."

"And they had the children?"

"Oh, their husbands would have insisted. A driouu is the one pursued; he can be extraordinarily picky in his choice of sexual partners. So a driouu's child in a man's household means that his wife is unusually desirable. It's a status symbol."

"Would you watch Nicky? I need to _speak_ to Elim."

*

She found him in his workroom, fitting a new suit jacket on Julian. Too angry to give a damn if Bashir heard this, she just walked in and confronted him.

"Explain something, Elim. Why did you tell me that Nicky is your only child? I don't _care_ that you have others. But I damn well _do_ care about constantly being lied to!"

He frowned, "Other _children_?"

She repeated what Belor had told her.

"So why didn't you _tell_ me any of this?"

"Why would I mention it? The status it gave me at home wouldn't carry over here."

Bashir looked amazed, and just a bit appalled. "You have other children— _with Dukat's sisters_? I had no idea!"

"I don't have any other children, Doctor."

"Elim! How can you stand there and just bald-faced _lie_ to us?"

Julian held up his hand. "Wait. I think we have a _semantics_ problem." He looked at Elim, "How many children do you _have_?"

"Only one. Nicky."

"Now—how many children have you _sired_?"

"Eighteen."

" _Eighteen_?"

"Well, the higher I rose in the Order, the more I was sent off-planet. The opportunities just weren't _there_. I _tried_ to sire more."

Bashir stared at him, "You left _seventeen_ children back on Cardassia?"

"I didn't just 'leave' them. All the mothers had husbands they named as True Father. Including, I might add, Dukat's sisters. I will never forgive his rudeness to me: it was quite uncalled for!"

Not a deliberate lie then, just a cultural misunderstanding.

"But, Elim—what if a driouu wants to raise the child himself?"

"Oh, that is . . . almost never allowed. And I am _truly honored_ that you let me stand as True Father to Niccolo: allow me to supervise and guide him."

"This is all very touching," Bashir said, "but I want to know what Dukat _did_."

"He threw me out of the house! He said I'd just pretended to be his friend to get to his family's females and he thought I was disgusting. Then he dragged me down the street to the train station and pushed me aboard the Metro Express—which was just starting to pull out.

"But . . . just as the doors were closing, I said— Well, I shouldn't have said it, of course. I shouldn't have sunk to that level."

"What did you say?" asked Bashir.

"I was very young. Only a college student. I wouldn't be so indiscreet today."

She folded her arms, "But what did you _say_?"

"And I really shouldn't have goaded him like that, but the doors were closing and the train was pulling out—"

" _Elim_!"

"I said, 'Oh, _do_ give my regards to your sisters. _And_ your lovely _mother_.'

"And then I just sort of . . . _smirked_ at him."

Julian and she looked at each other—and burst into uncontrollable laughter. Elim just stood there, looking smug.

_Really,_ they _shouldn't_ encourage him.


	26. Chapter 26

"I don't _want_ to go to Nanny! Matthew says nannies are for _babies_!" Nicky pushed away his bowl of fish stew and folded his arms across his chest.

"Maybe Nanny will let you make another valentine for me." She pointed at the endearingly lopsided paper heart mounted above the replicator. "I just love that one."

That got a smile out of him, but it also suggested a new line of argument. "I could make valentines in Coopa's shop. From a _s'lection_ of _fine fabrics_."

_Oh, there's no doubt whose child you are, little charmer!_

Unfortunately, she had no time for charm today. "Niccolo. It is Father's job to design haute couture. It is my job to run Bajorcraft. And it is _your_ job to _complete_ the kindergarten supplement. Now eat your breakfast."

"But _why_ do I have to—"

"Because I'm your mother, and I say so."

*

Sildy and her mother were just descending the stairs from Sisko's office as she started up them. Delbo moved in her usual peculiar disjointed manner: as though she could somehow keep her shapeless dress from actually touching her. Being outside her home must still seem so strange. And wearing clothing— _forcing_ helpless Ferengi men to think about removing it!

Sildy, however, seemed increasingly comfortable with the forbidden practice. Today she had on a blue and white striped tunic, brown leggings and sandals. Not the height of fashion, but presentable. Scowling, she passed her mother, pushed past her and headed for the Ops turbolift.

When she walked in, Sisko was sitting on the couch with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples.

"Headache, Benjamin?"

He looked up, "She doesn't mean to be. You're a bit early; sorry I haven't sent for our coffee yet."

"Oh, that's fine." She sat down, "More trouble with Sildy? I see she's bringing backup now."

"Just the usual: why can't I make 'Cousin Quark' hire her? I am sympathetic. But Bajoran law has no discrimination statutes and this _is_ a Bajoran station."

"Well, at least I'm bringing good news. There hasn't been a single case of shoplifting in the last week." She smiled, "Maybe we're due a respite, with our last few Akoremites finally gone."

"The Akoremites weren't doing all the shoplifting," he snapped. Then he raised his hand, "I'm sorry; I know you didn't mean it that way. There _was_ an extra burden on Security." He looked so weary.

"Captain, I know you feel for the Akoremites. I know your reconciliation commission is trying to bring them home. But _Winn_ is against it—and most Bajorans will never defy her."

Sisko raised an eyebrow, "You seem very sure of that, Miss Devlin."

"Shall I give you an example? I was curious about the 'orbs,' so I decided to read the scientific studies. Do you know what I found? Nothing! No scientific investigation whatsoever. Because the kais and the vedeks opposed it. And on _Bajor_ there was no Galileo."

"Yet the Bajorans see their spirituality as a source of strength and moral courage. And I have come to agree with them." He shrugged, "Well, no shoplifting this week; that _is_ good news. And what's this I hear about Mrs. McElroy planning a children's 'Easter egg hunt?' That's a nice gesture, but she'd better order the program now. It can take forever to get something delivered out here."

_All right, I'll change the subject. I only wish you could really see them._

*

She backed the skinny Bolian into Odo's desk and spoke very softly. "How did you lure him away from the Easter egg hunt? And where were you taking him?"

"I was just talking to him," he squeaked. "I didn't mean any harm!" One bead of sweat rolled down his pale azure face.

Behind him, Nicky sat in Odo's chair, watching all the excitement with wide-eyed interest.

"I was only testing his intelligence," the Bolian added. "That's what I _do_."

"What!"

Odo stepped in. "Devlin. He may be telling the truth. My deputy found them in the replimat, in plain view of the crowd on the Promenade." He held up a padd, "He was asking the child questions, from this. It is just a standard intelligence test."

She backed off a step. "Amy McElroy called in a panic to tell me Nicky had disappeared from the holosuites. How did he end up with _you_?"

"I'm speaking at an educators' convention on Galipota. I have a layover here. I was just looking at the merchandise in the shop windows, when he walked out of that bar. It seemed odd, his being all by himself; so I asked him if he was lost. And we just struck up a conversation. He's so _articulate_ for a child that young. I just _had_ to know how he'd score on the Muthertho-Gilbretz Scale." He gave her a nervous smile, "He scored an eighty-nine! That's very high for a three year old, even a Cardassian."

"Half Cardassian," she corrected automatically. "And I know his m-g score." She turned to Odo, "I want this man's background checked out before you let him go."

"Already on it."

She walked around the desk, "Niccolo, tell me what happened."

He looked up at her, "I went to the egg hunt with Molly. And Yoshi and Bril and Laren and—"

"I know all that. Why did you _leave_ the hunt, and _how_?"

"I said, 'Computer, exit.' And I was going to Coopa's shop, but Mr. Ranwix said we would do some tests. And then the deputy brought me here. And he gave me his _badge_!" He looked down at the Bajoran combadge fastened to his shirt, "He said I can be a Junior Deputy!"

He rattled it all off in a tone of happy satisfaction with his own naughtiness that reminded her much too much of another "articulate" Cardassian.

"You just called for the exit and walked out? Or did you _sneak_ out?"

He made his eyes go wide with feigned innocence, "Oh no, Mommy!"

_Oh no, indeed! This has to stop right now._

*

She set the bowls of chilled beet borscht on her dining table and sat down across from Elim. "So your investigation didn't turn up anything either?"

"Professor Ranwix designed the admissions tests used by several Bolian universities, and by all accounts he's just a harmless eccentric. I assure you, I had him checked out very thoroughly. I also ran a check on Mrs. McElroy."

"Mrs. McElroy?"

"I didn't find anything suspicious. But it _was_ her event that took Niccolo out of our direct supervision." He sighed. "I've grown so careless, living here. I never used to take _anyone_ at face value."

She stirred the dab of sour cream floating in the deep magenta of her soup into white swirls. "He's just outgrown the nanny program, and all the activities I arrange for him. I'll order a more advanced educational program, but . . ."

"He _is_ a Cardassian, my dear. My people have a deep psychological _need_ for discipline and order. I can't give him a proper Cardassian education. But I do have a suggestion."

*

He sat squarely in Devlin's armchair, trying to look properly paternal. The child stood facing him—looking very serious.

"Niccolo, you are a big boy now and you no longer need a nanny." And judging by that smile, the child was not exactly upset about that.

"Your mother has decided that now _I_ will be in charge of your education. Do you understand?"

Nicky nodded, his eyes wide.

"You will be assigned daily lessons, to be completed in the conference room at Bajorcraft, or in my workroom. You will be responsible for the work; you will learn _self-discipline_. We will also visit every part of this station. You will learn about each Starfleet department, the commerce carried out in each shop. It will be a demanding curriculum; you _will_ master it."

"Yes, Coopa."

"'Coopa' is for _little_ boys. _You_ are a _big boy_. Now you may call me _Father_."

*

Dax was standing by herself, gazing out the arched doorway of the Celestial Cafe. And she seemed strangely subdued for a newly promoted officer.

She walked over and spoke quietly, "Dax? Is something wrong?" The babble of the other party guests covered her voice.

"Worf has accepted the position of first officer on Captain Riker's ship. Deep space exploration."

"Oh, Jadzia, I'm so sorry."

She gave a wry smile, "It's not as if I'd never had to give someone up before. Well, I won't stand around moping all night. Let's get some cake."

Julian and Audrey were standing by the cake, chatting with Leeta and Rom. As they walked up, Leeta was saying, "No woman on this station will go in there. Not even his own dabo girls. We'll make him crack yet!"

Margo Berkuta popped her head in the door, "They're coming! Come on, let's go cheer for them."

They all went out to the upper level walkway and leaned on the railing to watch.

Here they came, right on schedule: Sildy, all four of her older sisters and her Aunt Ishka. One of Odo's Bajoran deputies was with them. After the "Days of Remorse Riot" Sisko had ruled that any demonstration must be accompanied by station security. It was that tough-looking blond one this time: the one who gave Nicky his combadge. She was amused to see that Sildy had him carrying some of the shopping bags.

The Ferengi women were dressed in an odd assortment of lingerie. Now they formed a line right outside of Quark's and began to pull other clothing out of the bags and put it on. Dresses, pants, blouses, scarves, sweaters: all brightly colored and bedecked with ruffles, bows, beads and spangles.

The women turned the simple, natural act of dressing into flamboyant street theater: pulling each item on _slowly_ , deliberately provocative, daring Quark or his waiters to come out and confront them.

Once they were dressed, they began their nightly chant.

Up and down the Promenade, women of several other races had come out of the shops to watch; now some of them joined in.

Dax headed for the stairs, "Damn it, I'm protesting too!"

"I can't picket one of my own guild members—but don't let me stop the rest of you."

Jadzia led the way down the stairs, the others followed her, laughing.

From below, the Ferengi women's chant carried up to her—loud, clear and proudly defiant.

"We're _here_! We're _clothed_! Get _used_ to it!"

*

Nicky clutched her sleeve, "Don't step on the track, Mommy!"

She froze in place, steps inside the door, as a line of tiny maglev cars hurtled past her feet. Then she looked around Elim's front room and shook her head. By this point, Elim and Nicky had covered most of it with a grand layout of tracks, trains and stations.

Elim was sitting on the floor, tools and track sections spread out around him. "Ah, Niccolo. Did you bring your arithmetic problems?"

"Yes, Father," he held up his study padd. "May I work on the model trains now?"

"What is the rule, Niccolo?"

Nicky sighed. " _First_ we go over my answers, _then_ we work on the trains."

"Well, I won't be out too late. Quark says Morn's poetry readings are pretty staid affairs." Then she grinned, "Now you boys have fun with your toys."

"It's not a _toy_ , Mommy!"

Elim waved a hand at the layout, " _This_ is not a plaything. _This_ is an educational tool: a practical demonstration of transport scheduling, commercial—"

"All right, all right," she said with a laugh, "it's not a toy."

_And if having Nicky lets you recapture your stolen childhood—I won't deny it to you._


	27. Chapter 27

All along the concourse, people were assembling display booths for the station's artisans festival. Devlin tried to ignore the racket of power tools and happy voices, and peered in the window of the produce market.

Nicky was interviewing Mrs. Pringiwix for his latest "know your neighborhood" assignment from Elim. The imperious Bolian had refused to speak to her ever since that first guild election. Yet here she was, showing her rival's son around the shop, flattered by his oh-so-serious attention.

Pringiwix pointed out some small item on the impulse-buy rack at the front counter. Nicky looked up and said something to her, probably asking a question. She answered with equal seriousness—then she smiled, ruffled his hair and gave him a piece of candied chakreth from the familiar blue and silver jar on the counter.

Nicky had charmed most of the merchants he interviewed. Even a few Bajorans, which astounded her. Was he charming because, as Elim insisted, the driouu traits were intensified in the inbred child? Or was he charming just because he was _Nicky_ , the theory she favored?

It was certainly true that Nicky's biological parent could be charming. But she saw that as a learned response. It told her there had been a time in Elim's life when charm usually worked.

But _why_ were the driouu'sch irresistible, or accepted as "charming rascals?" _Was_ it the result of subtle pheromonal cues? Or just a self-fulfilling prophecy? Ulani said the driouu'sch restored random mixing to the gene pool. Did they also bring a spark of sanctioned excitement into gray, controlled, Cardassian lives?

And another, darker, speculation had occurred to her. Elim thought Enabran Tain had been ordered to spare his life to preserve a member of the nobility. But someone automatically perceived as charming and irresistible would be valuable as a spy, even as an interrogator. Had Tain, as a bright and ambitious young officer, gotten himself assigned to the death squads just to pick and choose through the nobles' helpless children? If he'd already been plotting his rise to the top of the Order, he might have wanted a trustworthy inner circle: hand-picked and indoctrinated to his exact specifications.

Had he selected the bright and articulate children, then tried to mold them in his own cruel image?

*

Garak sat down on the floor of the tunnel and leaned back against the wall. All this ducking and crawling was starting to get to him; he was not a young man anymore. The boy came and sat next to him. He was still full of energy, and a three year old could stroll through these passageways.

"Father—" Nicky began in his normal voice.

"Niccolo, _why_ are we _whispering_?"

"I'm sorry, Father. It's the Days of Remorse. It's really quiet and somebody might hear us."

"That's better. Now what were you going to ask?"

"What is 'authorized personnel?'"

Good, he'd noticed the signs. "People who have permission to be here. We do not. But _our_ first rule is: The world is dangerous; know your surroundings. And we never _tell_ anyone we have our own rules. Do you understand?"

" _Yes,_ Father," he whispered, "it's a _secret_."

_I should know my child would understand that!_

"That's right, Niccolo, it's a secret. But now it's time to go back. How do we return to the Promenade?"

"We know the places where we turned. We can just go backwards now."

"And if you had been brought here, blindfolded or unconscious? How would you leave these tunnels then?"

He looked puzzled. "I . . . I don't know."

"This station is an artificial environment. A manufactured and regulated airflow comes _from_ a central location and is distributed _to_ the outer parts of the station. These air currents are so gentle one is not really aware of them. Now, we are in the central core; how do we get back to the Promenade?"

"We go the way the air is blowing?"

"Which way is it blowing?"

The child frowned.

"Do this." He licked his forefinger and held it up. Nicky copied him—and broke into a delighted grin when the sudden chill on one side of the digit told him where the air current was coming from.

"Very good, Niccolo."

"May I tell Mother I'm learning about the maintenance tunnels?"

"You may always tell your mother, but do not tell _anyone_ else. Remember, this is a secret."

"I know another secret too."

Garak went cold and held his breath.

"Mother can speak Kardasi."

"How did . . . Yes, Niccolo. That _is_ a secret."

*

"And congratulations _again_ , Madam President." Quark grinned at her, "Starting your _third_ term as head of the merchants guild. You'll match old Pringiwix, she served for six years too."

She took a margarita from the tray and smiled at him, "So, Quark, how is—" The "DS9 Mariachi Band" strolled past. When the music receded she tried again, "How is life treating _you_?"

He looked a little nervous, "Fine, fine, can't complain."

"Really? _Six months_ of nightly demonstrations hasn't affected your business at all?"

"Well . . . I'm not getting as much catering trade. None of the _females_ here will hire me anymore. Except you. And now Vilix'pran is having his quads' budding day party catered by the Andorian restaurant! Why did he turn against me; he isn't a female!"

"He isn't a _male_ either."

"As long as he uses ' _he'_ , he should be on _my_ side! There's someone else without a drink. Sorry, got to go." He bustled off.

"Devlin, I need your advice."

She jumped and almost spilled her drink. Bashir stood there, a glass of mezcal in his hand and a worried look on his face. "Audrey won't stop talking about her sister-in-law."

"What? Why is that a problem?"

"'Don't Asha and Bradley look _happy_ in all their holophotos?' 'Isn't their baby girl _adorable_?' 'What a nice _family_.' Audrey's hinting that _we_ should get married!"

_And another Bashir relationship draws to a close. What did Dax call it? An "episodic" life?_

"And I assume you _don't_ want to get married?"

"But I never meant to hurt Audrey. I just didn't know she was that _serious._ "

He truly didn't see what a catch he would be. A brilliant researcher, attractive and well-spoken: this posting was just an early chapter in what had to be a distinguished career.

"Do you really want my advice? Tell her now. That's kinder than stringing her along."

"I _would_ like to get married someday. But it would have to be someone . . . well, someone I'm actually in love with."

_And who am I to judge you—when I've sworn to never fall in love again._

*

Garak took a sip of his jasmine tea and studied the line of Bajorans outside the outfitter's store. A line of Bajorans renting 'skis.' And no doubt there would be another line for the Bajor shuttle.

Only the humans would build a resort on desolate Mount Belveet. Then again, only humans would turn winter into a time of fun and frivolity.

Then he smiled. Bajorans having fun? Well, why not? He was in a good mood—everyone else could be, too.

According to Felgar, there was trouble in Lakarian City: trouble that any competent government would have managed to cover up. Young hotheads at the university, of course. A rally on the quadrangle, inflammatory anti-council rhetoric on a clandestine student web.

Now how could he encourage that?

The would-be rebels had been arrested . . . and he just happened to know a very good conservator. A conservator who owed him a favor. And if he asked that lawyer to help the students, pro bono, she would most certainly do it. As a matter of fact, he could also send her some very damaging information about the archon most likely to preside at the trial.

And it was time to let the people know just where this help was coming from. He tried to think of a properly mysterious name, rejected "Scarlet Pimpernel" as much too alien and obscure, and finally settled on the simple and suggestive "a noble friend." If he knew his rabble rousers, they would quickly spread the word that a royalist conspiracy was afoot.

The next step, of course, would be to connect them with a weapons dealer. For now, these youngsters could fight with words, but at some point—they must do more than talk.

*

When he heard the chime, Bashir hurried to his door.

Nicky stood there, looking very serious. "Happy New Year, Dr. Bashir." He handed him an isolinear rod, "My father told me to bring this to you. It is _an important message._ "

"Thank you, Nicky. Please come in." He walked over to his comm, "So you came all the way from your father's shop on the Promenade, to my rooms here in the habitat ring, _all by yourself_?"

" _Yes_ , Uncle Julian. This is the very first time I've done that."

"Really!" He inserted the rod. "Why, Nicky, this is an invitation to _your_ birthday party."

Nicky smiled, " _I_ am four years old. Today!"

"Well, if it's your _birthday_ . . . I'd better go buy you a present." Nicky's smile got much wider. "Please go back to your father's shop and tell him that I accept the invitation."

"Yes, Uncle Julian!" He ran back out.

He turned back to his comm and placed a call.

Devlin's face appeared on the screen instantly, "Did he get there all right?"

"He's on his way back. And Devlin, _don't worry._ The neuro-regulator will alert us to any respiratory problem. Odo's deputies will keep an eye on him. And _everyone_ likes him."

She glared at him, " _You've_ never been a mother, _have_ you?" She signed off.

He made another call. Garak answered after a few seconds.

"He's on his way back; it looks like he can handle it. Although I still think it's amazing that a child that young can find his way around this huge station."

*

She turned on her side and slowly ran her fingertips down Elim's arm, delighting in the narrow line of scales from the shoulder to the elbow, the feel of skin just subtly . . . _different_. He sighed and closed his eyes with an expression of mindless bliss. They both loved this part: the afterglow, the cuddling. And, pretty often, they'd get back in the mood again. Not that either of them ever needed much encouragement.

How could two people evolved on planets parsecs apart be so sexually compatible? Then again, maybe _most_ Cardassians and humans would be compatible—if they'd just give it a _try_. Maybe she should start a dating service.

He opened his eyes again. "I'm hungry."

"I am too. How about _spaghetti_ _alle vongole_ : spaghetti and clams."

"Ah ha! Carbohydrates to replenish my energy reserves. You are insatiable tonight."

"Only tonight?"

The twinkle in his eyes was answer enough.

They got up, threw on robes and walked into the hallway. She took a quick peek into Nicky's room. He was fast asleep. Julian's birthday gift—a model of a Galor-class starship—sat on his bedside table, still in its box.

Elim put his arm around her, "I _promise_ he will only run small errands for me. He will still be closely supervised. But a four year old should have some responsibilities. And know his way around his own community."

"Oh, I know." She kissed his cheek, "But sometimes it's hard to let go."

They went into the front room, gave their replicator orders quietly and sat down at the table.

Elim smiled, "Look at us, we could be any conventional old married couple: tiptoeing around the house, whispering, 'Don't wake the kids.' We could move to some nice suburban neighborhood on Earth and fit right in."

" _You_ might _make_ yourself fit in, my precious chameleon; but _I_ wouldn't. I spent thirty years trying to 'fit in' and I never could. And I wanted to, desperately."

He blinked. Then his face lit up in sheer delight. " _Finally_! _Finally—I_ can say it to _you_!"

He put his hands palms down on the table and leaned forward.

"That _—_ is _—_ a— _lie_!"

He sat back again, folded his arms and looked amazingly pleased with himself.

" _What_ is a lie?"

"That you 'wanted desperately' to fit in."

"What!"

"You are lying _to yourself. Think_ about it. You came _here_ , the 'frontier,' with every opportunity for a fresh start. And what did you do? You took up with _me_ : the outcast, the pariah. And you _flaunt_ it. You love the notoriety. You love being _different._

"My dear Devlin, if you ever really did 'fit in'— _you would be_ _miserable_."


	28. Chapter 28

Bashir looked around the bar, "Um . . . it's usually much livelier than this."

Lots of green. Lots of shamrocks. Lots of Guinness. Tables pushed back for dancing, but no band to be seen. And the crowd consisted of Morn, one glum Flaxian salesman, three bored waiters—and one frantic Ferengi barkeep.

He glanced back at his date. Her antennae had a quizzical tilt and she did _not_ look impressed. "But Quark has some wonderful holo-programs. Maybe—"

"No, my transport into the wormhole leaves at zero five hundred. Maybe I should just make an early night of it."

As they parted outside the bar, one of Sildy's sisters set down her picket sign and gave him a sympathetic look.

*

"Ten credits says this time Devlin yields!"

"You're on," she heard Berkuta say, "she's too pigheaded to yield."

She charged across the gym matting at Dax, felt hands grab her, went flying over Dax's shoulder and landed on her rear, hard. She took a deep breath—and got back up again.

A chime sounded, signaling the end of class. Dax gave a deep bow and she returned it with as much style as she could muster. Everyone stored the mats away and drifted out of the dojo.

As Dax and she left, the Trill gave her a mischievous smile. "Still glad _I'm_ teaching the class now instead of Worf?"

"I don't know why I ever thought you'd be easier on us."

Jadzia gave her a quick hug, "Sorry I was so rough."

"No, no: it's your job."

"Oh! Speaking of jobs—have you heard? Victory party: Celestial Cafe, twenty hundred hours. Tube grub sundaes, a Slug-o-Cola fountain and the DS9 Polka Band will play _all night_."

"You're kidding! He actually hired her?"

Dax grinned, "Sildy thinks the Saint Paddy's Day party finally did it. Even O'Brien stayed away. He says his ancestors would never forgive him for crossing a picket line."

*

Garak peered cautiously out of his shop door.

The Arboretum Garden Club was transplanting the spring seedlings from the botany lab to the garden plots in the arboretum. And Mrs. O'Brien was, in Devlin's words, "having her annual tizzy."

There was an ominous hum of antigrav motors and a gigantic flat of bedding plants hove into view. The flat was accompanied by what looked to be the entire club membership—and it was not clear to him just who was controlling its progress. Just as well he was staying—

The light in the scanning alcove flickered, almost imperceptibly. His clandestine comm unit was signaling an incoming transmission.

He locked the shop door, ran back to the comm and read the brief message.

_Yes!_

*

Bashir set his coffee cup on the conference table and took the seat next to Dax.

"I have just received a communique from Starfleet Intelligence," Sisko began. "A renegade Cardassian fleet has attacked the Klingon occupation force on Drelgit."

"Dukat!" said Kira.

"Yes, and it looks like he's winning. What's more, Intelligence thinks the Klingons will delay any counterstrike. Their fleet is spread awfully thin. And the planet just isn't important, materially or strategically. The Cardassians' Drelgit colony is a poverty-stricken backwater: the Klingons took it almost as an afterthought. SI thinks Gowron won't waste many resources on this."

"Then he's making a mistake," O'Brien said. "I'll bet that's _why_ Dukat picked Drelgit. And once he gets his foot in the door . . ."

"I agree, Mr. O'Brien. But the Federation is officially neutral in any conflict between the Cardassians and the Klingons. We could help look for the missing ships. But once those ships engaged the Klingons, we were out of it."

The captain looked around the table, "And—I'm happy to tell you—HQ is disbanding the task force and assigning the _Defiant_ to DS9 again."

Dax shrugged, "Well, I guess taking Drelgit will get Dukat back in the council's good graces."

"Oh yes, there _is_ one more little detail. Dukat has issued a 'statement.' He says he's claiming Drelgit in the name of the 'legitimate' government of Cardassia. And he's warning both the Klingons _and_ the Detapa Council to keep their forces clear of the planet."

"The _legitimate_ government?" Dax said.

Kira made a face, "He's just setting up his own little kingdom in their outlying colonies. I don't know why he waited so long to become a pirate—it suits him."

*

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and walked into Elim's quarters.

"Ah, there you are, my dear. One moment please; I've almost finished this."

The model train layout was gone. He put the last few sections of track into a box on the couch and looked around—a little wistfully.

"Oh, Elim, you two had so much fun with that." She held up a hand, "I know. I know. It wasn't fun; it was 'educational.'"

He smiled, "Perhaps there was a _bit_ of fun involved. But once Niccolo discovered starship models, he lost all interest in civilian transportation. I'm afraid that being raised on a military installation is having an effect on our child, whether we wish it or not." He spotted a stray crossing arm on the floor, picked it up and dropped it into the box. "Oh well, when something is over, it's over."

_Oh, Elim._

"But you said we 'need to talk'?" He moved the box to the floor and sat down on the couch; she joined him.

"Dukat took Drelgit in April and he's held it for over a month. Soon you'll return to Cardassia as part of a new government. Nicky and I can't go with you and I need to make plans for our future."

He did look sad for a moment. "I'm afraid you may be right. What do you plan to do?"

"I'm setting a date to leave DS9: one year from now. Nine months until February and Nicky's surgery, another three months here to be sure he's all right and find a buyer for Bajorcraft. Then we're moving to Lissepia."

"Lissepia?"

"That's a rather . . . freewheeling planet, which suits me. And there are quite a few mixed-blood Cardassians living there; so Nicky won't feel out of place. I understand Lissepia was the traditional refuge for Bajoran mistresses and their children."

"Because it is fairly close to Cardassia Prime. Even after I return home, I could visit frequently."

She had her doubts about that, but all she said was, "You will _always_ be welcome, Elim."

He looked into her eyes, "I _will_ miss you."

"I will miss you too."

So, it was settled, and with an absolute minimum of fuss. But then they'd both known this day was inevitable, from the very start.

*

_She doesn't want to leave me._

It was an unsettling thought. It had been an unsettling conversation. Devlin had returned to her Bajorcraft office, but he was still replaying her words in his mind.

She'd explained her plans for a life without him so coolly. But _everything_ had contradicted her pretense of emotional detachment: her body language, the look in her eyes. She was trying to set him free to return to Cardassia—as if _his_ happiness was more important.

Was it possible that this alien woman somehow, almost . . . loved him?

Oh, probably not. He knew he was not a lovable person: so few people _had_ ever loved him. Mated with him, yes. Several Cardassian men, and many Cardassian women, had been delighted to share his bed. But had _anyone_ actually _loved_ him?

Well, his . . . his mother, of course. His mother had given her sweet life for him.

He heard her voice again, _"I won't tell you! No, no! Don't hurt my baby!"_

Oh, how he envied those races whose memories could fade with time—and give them peace.

*

The crowd applauded as the "DS9 Drummers and Fancy Dancers" finished their set and packed up to move to another spot on the Promenade. The station's all-purpose music corps had joined the summer powwow circuit. She wasn't sure what real Cheyenne or Arapaho would think of them. But at least Sisko had resumed his yearly celebrations. She assumed tonight's campfire ceremony would include the passing of a peace pipe—in the desperate hope that the Bajorans would take the hint.

Nicky pulled on her sleeve, "Mommy, look in the window! Aren't they cute?"

A litter of foopins were playing in the pet store's window. They _were_ cute: funny little rounded torsos, six stubby legs, silky golden hair and trusting big brown eyes.

"Mark might get a foopin for his birthday. Mr. McElroy said he would think about it." His expression was very serious. "Could _I_ have a foopin? I'd take good care of it. I promise."

Lissepia didn't allow the importation of animals. If she bought him a pet now, he'd have to give it up when they moved.

_It's time. I have to start telling him some of it._

"Nicky . . . Mommy will explain when we get home."

*

She sat down beside him on the couch. Where to begin?

"Nicky, do you remember the farewell party when Lieutenant Wonga was posted to the _Crockett_?"

He nodded.

"Well, each Starfleet member here will be re-posted someday. And we will move too. We'll move to a planet called Lissepia, and you'd have to leave the foopin here. Wouldn't that make you feel sad?"

He nodded again, his gaze fastened on her face.

"But I'll buy you a pet when we _get_ to Lissepia; I promise. You'll like it there; you'll have lots of room to run and play. And Lissepian people will never be mean to you, because they are used to seeing little boys who are part Cardassian."

He looked puzzled, "People aren't mean to me."

True enough: the Bajorans here had been fairly tolerant of him. That would change though. "Some of the Bajoran people here _might_ be mean to you, when you are older."

_When you start to show an interest in their daughters. Or their sons. Or both, like your father._

"Some Bajorans are mean to Father. Will Lissepian people be nice to _him_?"

"Niccolo, I'm going to tell you something very important. Your father may go back to Cardassia someday, if Cardassia needs his help. But you mustn't tell _anyone_ that he's going back. That is a . . . a family secret."

" _Yes,_ " he whispered. " _We_ have our _own_ rules. But we never _tell_ people that."

_Elim, what have you been teaching this innocent child? I must say, I approve._

"Yes, that's right. So you see, Father might not come with us to Lissepia, not right away. But he will come and visit us _lots_ of times."

And how many Cardassian officers had promised their Bajoran mistress and mixed-blood children that very thing, only to be drawn back into their real lives on Cardassia and forget all about them?

*

Bashir hurried along the Promenade. Another late day, another walk home alone through the half-lit station. He knew it was silly, but he always found this atmosphere a little creepy. He kept expecting the lights to start going out behind him as he walked.

Glancing up ahead, he was surprised to see light flooding out of the open archway of the arboretum. Keiko working late?

When he reached the entryway, he looked in. Across the lawn, a tall, slender woman in a white dress was picking fruit off one of the trees and putting it in a basket. A graceful figure silhouetted against a tree, bathed in soft autumn lighting—it looked like an Impressionist painting.

She put the last peach in the basket and turned around.

He saw a pretty girl.

And _then_ he thought . . .

_Oh!_

"Oh hi, Julian." She looked into the middle distance, "Computer, resume half light."

She walked out to join him, "Working late? What was the crisis this time? Not Ferengi ear mites again!"

So they walked along the night Promenade together, just talking.

And it felt so . . . comfortable.


	29. Chapter 29

She took a seat on Elim's couch, "All right, what do you have on them?"

He sat down and handed the padd to her, "This is Dr. Gzano Zhemoor." The screen showed an arrogant looking Cardassian man with delicate, even pretty, features.

He took the padd back, touched a symbol and returned it to her. "The figures on the left are his official tax records. Those on the right are from his private files."

"His private files? You _are_ good." She studied the figures. "Got it: they don't match. He's cheating on his taxes. How is that possible, given Cardassia's _perfect_ system of law enforcement?"

He took the padd back and shrugged, "He's bribing the local tax collector. The Belfon colony isn't Cardassia Prime, my dear. We must expect things to be a bit more lax. But this gives us a weapon against the doctor _and_ his business manager. They don't report me for genetic incest, I don't report them for tax evasion.

"And only four other people will have access to the genetic report. The tech who does the DNA sequencing has gambling debts I'll offer to pay. The assisting surgeon is trying to get his daughter an internship at the Central Archives; I have contacts there. And I'm _quite_ sure the surgical nurse will keep silent to protect Zhemoor."

"Hanky-panky between the doctor and his nurse? How unoriginal."

"Well, we can assume he's having . . . 'hanky-panky' with several of the married women in the colony. But Mrs. Talomar seems _especially_ fond of him."

"Why would we just assume . . . Oh. He's a driouu."

Elim looked amused, "Of course. Many of our male physicians are. And finally, there is the clinic records clerk. I just can't find much on him. It's certainly possible something will turn up in the next five months. If nothing does, I'll try a bribe. But if he won't accept it, I may need to threaten him . . . perhaps even hurt him."

He held up a hand, "I know you don't approve. But a true professional simply does what needs to be done, and without undue emotion."

_*_

O'Brien and he drew back as Molly raced past their bench on her bicycle. Niccolo and Yoshi followed her on their smaller bikes. They tore across the lawn, passed a tree heavy with autumn-red leaves and dismounted at a large playground structure of platforms and connecting walkways.

Molly drew an imaginary sword and pointed it at the structure, "There lies the enemy castle! It shall be ours, my brave samurai!" She climbed a ladder, slicing through the air with her sword. Her little brother and Nicky followed her example with gleeful violence. It was quite evident that the defenders of the castle were being hacked into bloody little bits.

The chief gave an indulgent smile, "Ah, the storming of Edo Castle; Keiko told her that story. She says she likes to see that fighting spirit in Molly."

That was one way to put it. He thought the child was a little hellion. Then he realized that O'Brien had paused, waiting for him to insert a compliment. "Oh, yes, she certainly is a spirited child."

Satisfied, O'Brien went back to telling him about the Dublin "foot ball" playoffs. Earth too? Did every planet in the known universe have some version of that mind-numbing game?

How much longer must he put up with this drivel? And the maddening thing was, he'd brought this on himself. He'd decided to cultivate the O'Briens and he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. The chief seemed to think they were actually friends.

Devlin thought that O'Brien simply needed to prove—to himself—that he was not prejudiced against Cardassians. But he'd be perfectly happy to have the man hate him; it would be so much less trouble.

*

Devlin took a sip of her mulled cider, savoring the taste of clove and cinnamon. She looked around the arboretum. There were a handful of Bajorans here and a few Federation civilians like herself and the Serdeks. But most of the guests at Keiko's leaf-peeping brunch were Starfleet officers. She glanced down at her dark plum dress; it did make a nice contrast to the sea of black and gray.

Miles still had Elim trapped by the row of sumac trees. Judging by O'Brien's gestures, he was telling him about a soccer match. Judging by Elim's lack of expression, he was bored out of his wits. She should go rescue him. Or she could just send Julian over. Now where . . .

There he was: by the buffet, talking with Margo Berkuta.

Wait a minute. Not just talking. She recognized that body language. He was _flirting,_ doing his very best to charm. And it looked like Berkuta was responding. Where did _this_ come from? Margo wasn't at all his usual type.

He'd broken up with Audrey Hudgens last November, almost a year ago. In the interim there had been an occasional fling; but only with women who were just passing through. If he was paying this much attention to someone who actually lived here—this might be serious.

But Berkuta was just . . . just one of those people who was always _there_. The Greek chorus, the cheering section. Welcome, but not particularly sought out. Why in the world would Julian suddenly _notice_ her?

*

"If that foopin gets loose in here, you boys will go without dinner until you catch it. Understand?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Mark McElroy nodded, "Yes, Miss Devlin."

Nicky took the wiggly little creature out of the carrier, held it close to his heart and stroked its fur. "He likes me, Mommy!"

Her front door opened and Elim walked in. "Good evening, my dear. I closed up a bit early; it was rather quiet today." Then he noticed Nicky and the foopin.

"Look, Father. Isn't he cute? His name is Rover."

Elim went deathly pale. "Put that down! Get it out of here! I—" He clapped his hand over his mouth and bolted from the room. She heard the bathroom door open and close, and then the sound of violent retching.

_What . . ._

"Nicky . . . your father has an upset stomach, he needs some quiet. Put the foopin in the carrier and help Mark take it back to the McElroys."

She got the children out the door, then hurried down the hall. She heard water running and assumed Elim was cleaning up. The water stopped, but he didn't come out. She stepped into the door's sensor field. It stayed closed; he must have locked it.

"Elim, are you all right? Let me in." He didn't answer. "Computer, this is the registered occupant. Override the lock on the bathroom door."

She walked in. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

"Elim, what is it? What's wrong?"

He flinched and pulled away, "Get out!"

"I'm not going to get out. Tell me what's wrong."

"Leave me alone!"

She walked over and reached down to caress his face, "Elim, I just want to help—"

He grabbed her upper arms and jerked down, forcing her to her knees on the cold tile floor. " _Believe me_ ," he snarled, " _you don't want to know._ "

She saw the agony in his eyes—ignored the pain of his hands, gripping her arms. "It's all right. It's _me, Devlin_ : the one you can tell."

" _Are_ you! Fine. We'll see about that."

He let go of her, took a deep breath. "There was a man. An important, powerful man. He took me in, raised me, after my parents . . . died. This man knew that I had betrayed someone close to me."

_You're talking about your mother. About being forced to choose between her and Tain. You were five years old, a frightened little boy!_

"He was everything in the world to me, and to the other orphans he taught and sheltered. When I was seven, he gave each of us a pet, a _danap_. They are like your 'dogs'—playful and affectionate. Mine greeted me each day when I returned from the mind training, slept at the foot of my bed each night. I think he . . . loved me.

"He let us have the danaps—train them, love them—for a year. Then one day when we returned from school, they weren't at the gate to greet us. But _he_ was waiting there. He took us down to a room in the basement, a room we had never been allowed to enter. Our danaps were there. They were strapped down, splayed out, on white ceramic tables.

"He said, 'Each of you has shown yourself capable of disloyalty. You will _not_ be disloyal to _me_.'"

He could barely get the words out. "He gave us . . . scalpels. ' _Prove_ that you love only _me_.'

"Tain was all I had in the world! A child with no family is a non-person, left to starve in the streets!

"I had to. I had to."

She reached up, tried to touch him.

He knocked her hand away. "Are you waiting for me to _cry_? Then you'll wait forever: _monsters don't cry_!"

She got to her feet and sat down next to him. There were tears on her face. She took one teardrop on the tip of her finger and touched Elim's cheek. Then she put her arms around him. He drew in a ragged breath and stiffened up, but he didn't push her away again.

She held him tight, and stroked his back and whispered, over and over, that Tain had been the monster, that Elim had been a helpless little boy, that it would be all right now.

Of course it would never be all right.

_Enabran Tain—I hate you! I hope the Founders never blew up your ship. I hope you died on the bridge: slowly, choking on noxious fumes, burning alive, screaming for help that never came._

*

He stalked the deserted late-night Promenade—too agitated, too _angry_ , to sleep. _He_ was the interrogator; he made other people confess _their_ secrets! Why had she come here? Why had she complicated his life?

He started to walk past the florist's kiosk. There were roses. He'd given her a rose after the first time they made love. He remembered that night. Breaking into her shop to leave the rose and the poem. Trying to look romantic and dashing again, desperate to hold on to this alien woman who, inexplicably, wanted _him_ : the exile, the rejected one. And he had never admitted just how much the gift of her body—her affection—had salved his wounded pride. How the sheer blazing _heat_ of her made this cold metallic prison—bearable.

_She was holding me. She will still_ touch _me._

But she was moving to Lissepia in only seven months.

*

Devlin closed the buyer's report, unable to concentrate. She'd tried all morning to contact Elim; but he seemed to be avoiding her. Had she pushed too hard last night, hurt his pride? Did he think that she pitied him now? She didn't.

Through all the troubles of his life—the evil he'd suffered and the evil he'd committed—this man had retained a measure of elegance and grace. But it was the elegance of a jeweled dagger, the grace of a master assassin's coup de grace. Only a fool would pity Elim Garak. And she was many things, but never a fool.

Until last night, when she'd overstepped their unspoken, but very real, emotional boundaries.

But Elim had _needed_ her, had so obviously needed to _tell_ someone.

Oh, the sight of Nicky holding a pet animal had triggered the memory. But had he been unconsciously looking for a trigger? Had he told her about that trauma—that _horror—_ because she was the only person he could trust and he was about to lose her?

There was a tap on the office door and her secretary walked in. He had a vase in his hand, a vase with one perfect rose. There was a small card tied to the vase with a silver ribbon.

"Station Services just delivered this, Miss Devlin." He set the vase down on her desk. The scent of roses permeated the room.

She kept her voice steady, "Thank you. Oh, Prinn . . . things are pretty quiet today. The office staff may take the rest of the day off."

He gave her a big smile, "Thanks, Miss Devlin. I'll tell the others." He walked back out.

She reached out with shaking hands and opened the card.

_For Devlin_

_The one I can tell_


	30. Chapter 30

Bashir leaned on the upper level railing and watched the baseball fans stream out of Quark's. It looked like the Ferengi's new spectator holoprogram, "The Last World Series," was a huge success. Not surprising, when Bajor was baseball crazy. Ironic that a game dead and buried on its planet of origin should find a new life here because of Sisko's influence.

_Well, look at that._

Garak, Devlin and Nicky—strolling out of Quark's. Nicky was carrying a London Kings pennant and a bag of popcorn. As they walked past, Garak put his arm around Devlin. Really, that could be any little family on an outing.

He sighed. Was he looking at a family, or just a classic case of codependency? These were not well people—no matter how normally they seemed to be functioning at the moment.

"I worry about them too," a gravelly voice said.

He turned to see Odo standing there, also looking down at Garak, Devlin and the child.

"He's up to something," Odo said. "I can _feel_ it."

"Well, we all just assume he's up to _something,_ all the time. But he really hasn't been in any trouble since . . ." He stopped to think about it. "Since those kidnapping attempts. And there, he was the victim. He's actually been living a perfectly . . . _respectable_ life for the last few years."

"Ha! Don't let _him_ hear you say that."

Bashir smiled, "No, I won't. But does what you're sensing now have anything to do with those failed abductions? You never did solve that."

"Don't remind me." His voice softened a bit, "I have no idea, Doctor. But he _is_ up to something."

*

Devlin pulled Nicky's covers up and looked around his room. The light from the hallway spotlighted the new baseball pennant on the wall. His bedside table held little-boy treasures: old tailoring tools, the deputy's combadge, Andorian marbles. In one corner of the room, his fashion dolls showed off their haute couture. In another, his model starships floated over an antigrav display stand.

But he still slept with his tattered rag doll held tight. With Elim, he _always_ acted his true developmental age: in human norms, a very bright seven or eight year old. Here with her, he sometimes seemed more like a human four year old.

She walked back out. Elim was coming down the hall.

"I'm . . . just going to check on him."

On a sudden impulse, she slipped her arms around his waist. He kissed the top of her head and hugged her. They stood like that for a long time, just clinging to each other. But in the end—they would have to let go.

*

She shot a quick look at Elim. He was shocked too.

She looked back at Bashir and Berkuta, who were both beaming at them across the replimat table.

"You're getting _married_?"

"I know it's a bit of a surprise," Julian said.

"But you've been dating for less than a month. I had no idea it was so serious."

He laughed. "Well, I'm almost _forty_ ; it's high time I _got_ 'serious.'"

Berkuta didn't look too pleased with that answer.

"But I've never _really_ been in love"—he took Margo's hand—"until now."

_That's more like it._

Elim gave a delicate little cough, "And when is the happy occasion to be?"

"Not until next summer," Berkuta said, "when we can both take a long leave. Captain Sisko will perform the ceremony here, then we'll spend a couple of weeks at my family's resort in Odessa."

*

He looked past Nicky to watch the guls sitting across the replimat. Their ships were here to treat their wounded and make repairs—safely out of sight of the Kardasi populace. He assumed the Detapa Council was in full cover-up mode: no Cardassian government admitted its failures.

Dukat's fleet had easily repelled this small squadron. It looked like Cardassia put no more value on Drelgit than the Klingons did. So the Royalist forces should hold this first conquest and—

"Father, may I go talk to the Kardasi officers?"

"What? No, Niccolo; they're eating their lunch, don't bother them."

Nicky seemed disappointed, but he obediently turned back to his own lunch. Then he looked up again. "Can I be an officer, when I grow up? Like Gul Krando in the valor tales?"

Ah. Well. Time for some home truths.

"You cannot join the Cardassian military, Niccolo. You can never live on Cardassia or be a part of that culture."

The poor child looked absolutely crushed. "I can't be an officer?"

A compromise occurred to him. "You can't serve on _Cardassia._ But you could always go to the Starfleet academy and be an officer in that service."

Of course the academy's health scans would reveal that Niccolo was fully Cardassian and create no end of problems. But he doubted this fascination with military machismo would persist to adulthood.

Nicky leaned forward, his eyes wide, "Could I be a _captain_? Like _Captain Sisko_?"

"Yes. You may join Starfleet and be a captain, just like Captain Sisko."

The boy grinned in delight and took a big bite out of his salmon burger.

Well, he'd been raised among humans, it was only natural that he would seek out human role models. And he could have done a lot worse than Benjamin Sisko. The man had his share of human foibles—but he was smart, pragmatic, tough and wily.

Then again, in a few months the child would move to Lissepia and Sisko would no longer be an influence on him. Neither would he, and he was beginning to view that with relief—because Devlin and Nicky would no longer run the risk that _he_ might somehow betray them.

_"You betrayed your own mother: you are incapable of loyalty."_

Maybe, in a way, Tain had been right. Oh, he was true to _Cardassia._ But could he put another person's well being ahead of his own?

No, probably not: his instinct for self-preservation was just too strong. It was entirely possible that Devlin and Niccolo would be better off without him.

*

Bashir paused in his reading and looked down at Nicky, sitting on his lap. His eyelids were fluttering closed; his breathing soft and steady. He continued, speaking even more quietly:

_So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur;_

_But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm_

_Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful_

_And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him_

_Three times, and drew him under in the mere—_

He glanced down again. Good, asleep at last. He carried Nicky to his room and tucked him in.

There, he hadn't let him stay up past his bedtime. And Devlin shouldn't be so picky about the rules when she asked him to babysit at a moment's notice.

She'd been hit by another uncontrollable urge to spend a night in Garak's quarters. He had a sneaking suspicion the Cardassian didn't realize just how lucky he was. Ruth Devlin was not beautiful, but in her all-too-obvious lust for her mate she was a fantasy come to life.

*

Devlin stared morosely into the dregs of her drink. Bashir probably thought she was having a high old time of it with Elim.

_Wrong again, Julian._

"Good evening! My name is Sildy and I'm your waitperson tonight!"

She peered up at the Ferengi girl in cheerful yellow plaid, " _Sildy_ , I _know_ who you are." She held up the tumbler, "A simple 'Would you like another drink?' will do."

" _I_ know that, Miss Devlin. I just say my name all the time to irritate Cousin Quark. One more Sazerac, coming up!"

Sildy turned around—and almost bumped into Quark, who was just walking up to the table. " _Excuse_ me _,_ Cousin Quark." She hurried away to the bar.

Quark took the other chair. "How are you doing tonight, Devlin? You seem a little down."

"I am _not drunk_. It's only synthahol anyway."

"I didn't think you were; I'm just not used to seeing you in here by yourself."

She looked into her glass, " _This_ is a Sazerac. Do they have Sazeracs on far-off exotic Lissepia?"

"Lissepia imports the third largest volume of spirituous liquors in the sector; it's a lucrative market."

She smiled—good old Quark.

Sildy sashayed back to them, plucked the cocktail off the tray and set it in front of her, "There you go." She looked at Quark, "My shift is over, Cousin Quark; I'm quitting."

He scowled up at her, "Not until you finish programming tomorrow's lunch menu, you aren't."

"You aren't _listening_ , Cousin Quark. _I quit._ I am _leaving_ your _employment._ "

" _What_! You can't _quit_! Not after _months_ of obscene displays to make me hire you!"

"Oh, I never really wanted to work for you. I just wanted to _win._ And I've saved enough latinum for passage back to Ferenginar now."

"Back to Ferenginar!" He looked horrified. His family's eccentricities—paraded before the entire Ferengi population.

Sildy held her empty tray in front of her like a shield and a strange light shone in her eyes, "I _have_ to go back. My sisters on the homeworld _need_ me." Then she turned and walked away.

"What sisters? Your sisters are all here."

Sildy dropped her tray on the bar with a clang, took off her bar apron, tossed it over Morn and marched out.

Poor Quark, he looked so confused. Really, he wasn't such a bad little guy.

*

"What are you trying to pull on me? Are you getting some kickback from your supplier?" She leaned across the bar, "For the _last time_ : My company Thanksgiving Dinner is in two weeks. My catering order was explicit. Everything real, nothing replicated—including _real cranberry sauce._ "

"I'm _sorry_! I didn't know this 'cranberry sauce' was so _vitally important_!"

"If you think I'm going to feed several hundred Bajorcraft employees some abomination called 'frunkberry sauce'—"

There was a murmur of voices out on the Promenade. It looked like a crowd was gathering.

Quark said it for both of them, "Now what?"

"We'd better find out."

" _You_ go find out; I have a bar to run."

"Fine. I'll find out, you run your bar— _after_ you order my cranberry sauce!"

She walked out and saw that a crowd had gathered in front of the public viewscreen. They looked curious, but not particularly agitated. Good, she was in no mood to deal with hysterical Bajorans. She glanced at the screen; it was just showing the "stand by" symbol for an FNS bulletin.

Then she spotted Elim standing back by the wall: close enough to see the screen, but well away from the crowd. She went to join him.

"What's going on?"

"I got a message from Dukat," he whispered. "It just says, 'Watch the news.' I assume he's finally freed another colony. But I should have been notified before it became public knowledge."

On the screen, the symbol disappeared, replaced by a hyper looking Andorian with a noticeable tic in one eye. "This is Varid Thelev, reporting from FNS headquarters. The Federation News Service has just learned that the renegade Cardassian forces holding Drelgit have now attacked, and apparently have taken, the Cardassian's Arawath Colony, a much more important"—

There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd on the Promenade: Arawath was only a half day's journey from the station.

"Is Dukat out of his mind! That was never taken by the Klingons. He's attacked our own colonial forces!"

—"renegade leader, Dukat, has issued a statement."

The service cut to a recording of Dukat, standing in front of a burgundy and gold banner and looking insufferably smug.

"Citizens of Cardassia, the time has come to throw off the yoke of the Detapa Council and restore our _legitimate_ government. Our Royalist forces have now liberated the vital Arawath Colony and stand ready to"—

"Royalist forces?" someone in the crowd said.

—"retake the Cardassian Union—one planet at a time if we must—until we have restored the monarchy, the bloodline that once led us to glory—and shall again!"

"He has no king to show them. He'll make our movement a _joke!_ "

"People of Cardassia," Dukat said, " _this_ is our rightful king." The camera pulled back to show a short, middle-aged Cardassian man in a brown tweed jacket, standing next to Dukat. He looked bewildered and lost.

Elim gripped her arm.

"You know him as Professor Gledden Reyvoe, a brilliant and distinguished educator. But his genetic profile _proves_ that he is actually Eldwith Jerott: the only surviving member of the family _scientifically bred_ to lead the Cardassian Union."

Elim had gone pale, a look of horror on his face.

The camera went back to a closeup on Dukat. "King Eldwith has now established a government in exile, here on Arawath. I call on _you_ , loyal citizens of our beloved Cardassia. Rise up, Patriots! Rise up _now—_ and _overthrow_ the detested Detapa Council!

"Restore the monarchy! Restore the glory of Cardassia!"

*

Elim ran back to his shop; she stayed right on his heels.

He unlocked the door and looked back at her. "I can explain later," he whispered. "But I need to be alone now while I straighten this out."

"No. I'm _not_ going to leave you while you need me."

_And you are damn well going to tell me what is going on!_

He threw up his hands in defeat. "Then stay. It hardly matters now anyway." They walked in. He called for a lock on the shop door, led her into the workroom and pressed a spot on the wall. A hidden door slid open. He walked through and she followed him.

A tiny, secret room. A desk with a comm unit. One chair, at the desk. She glanced around, then stood back against the wall, out of his way.

He sat down, stared at the screen—then he slumped in his chair.

"No, my codes are unbreakable. Dukat did _not_ find the king through me. Whoever stashed away the infant prince had to arrange a clandestine placement and a false identity file in the Central Archives: they _must_ have been highly placed in the government. They certainly weren't young. Yet they've survived the last fifty years and the last coup d'etat. And now, they've thrown in with Dukat. That is the only explanation."

He looked up, finally focused on her. "Oh, it's _over_ , my dear. Over. All my work. All my plans. Dukat has simply cut me out of the equation."

"So he has the king. You have your spy network: your 'fifth column' inside Cardassia. Dukat, and whoever told him, still _need_ you."

"Oh . . . Oh, that's true, of course."

But he had hesitated just one second too long.

"Oh, no! _That's_ the lie! Something about your 'underground.'"

"What . . . whatever do you mean, my dear?"

"When you first claimed to be 'Lord Garak,' I _said_ you'd just told me _too many_ improbable things. Ulani backs up your claim to nobility and evidently there really is a 'lost dauphin.' All that leaves is the secret organization undetected for _. . ._ "

She took a deep breath. "Elim . . . how many members does your underground have?"

"Why, several thousand, my dear. I don't know why we are discussing this when—"

"Damn it, Elim! Tell me the truth so I can try to help you! _How many_?"

"Well, you see . . . It all began when a clerk at the Central Archives—you'll understand if I don't name the individual—told me there were rumors of a secret file on the heir. Then I asked my family's old butler, Felgar, to help. And he brought in his daughter, Dr. Belor—"

"Just _tell_ me. _How many_?"

"Just who is telling this?"

She sighed. "I'm sorry. Do it in your own way—but _do_ it."

"Well: that's me, and the Archives clerk, and Felgar and Belor. And you, of course. Please believe me, my dear, you—"

It was hard to breathe and she was very cold.

"That's _it_! You're _saying . . . that's it_! _Five people_! There _is_ no spy network, no underground movement _at all_!"

"Oh, I was sure _some_ sort of Royalist group would spring up, once Dukat's military adventures got things _started_. Then I'd just take credit for whatever happened along those lines."

"It's a bluff! It's one colossal _bluff_! You made Dukat commit his ship, recruit others, fight battles, _seize colonies—_ and all the time you had _no hand at all_!"

That seemed to perk him up a bit. "I did do it rather well, didn't I?"

"But why would Dukat believe such an insane story when he already hated and distrusted you?"

"Oh, I really did have the identity of the missing heir, and genetic evidence. And Dukat's _always_ suspected I was 'up to something.' So when I finally 'admitted' that I'd been involved in one grand conspiracy all along, it just played into his conception of me.

"But I had _both_ Dukat's belief in my 'underground,' _and_ exclusive knowledge of the king's identity. Now, Dukat has actual physical custody of him. So it is simply _over_."

She thought about it.

"The situation has changed, therefore _we_ must change. The first rule of life: adapt or perish."

"And just what are _we_ going to—"

"No! Wait! That's just what we _mustn't_ do! Don't change anything, Elim."

" _Excuse me_?"

"What was the original plan? If Dukat had announced the king's existence on _your_ timetable, what would you be doing right now?"

"I would be in Sisko's office, presenting myself as a spokesman for the king and convincing the captain to arrange a meeting between myself and a representative of the Federation."

"You can't believe the Federation would _back_ you. Even if you convince them that a royalist movement exists—it's still just one of several groups vying for power on Cardassia."

"Of course they won't back us. My only goal was to convince them to stop interfering. If Starfleet would stop rushing in to rescue the Detapa Council, the Royalists would have a fighting chance."

"Then do it. Go up to Sisko's office right now; tell him you are speaking for the king and ask him to arrange the meeting. _Act like_ you haven't been cut out. If you get the meeting and tell them to invite Dukat to it too—will he turn down a chance to get Starfleet off his back just because _you_ arranged it? Or will he just be pragmatic and let you back in?"

The old twinkle was returning to his eyes. "Convince Sisko I'm speaking for a king who has actually never even heard of me. Tell him I'm acting in collusion with Gul Dukat, who he _knows_ despises me. And all the while, _I_ know I have 'no hand at all.'"

He smiled. "And just how do you suggest I do that?"

"Elim, dear."

"Yes?"

" _Lie._ "


	31. Chapter 31

Sisko folded his hands on his desk and regarded him with innocent wide-eyed sincerity.

"Now let me be sure I have all this. All this time, you've _actually_ been the head of a vast 'Royalist' underground. Plotting to restore the rightful king of Cardassia. Whom no one has ever heard of _. You_ arranged the defection of a dozen ships and the liberation of _two_ Cardassian colonies. And your _assistant_ in all this derring-do was . . . _Gul Dukat._ And now, you want _me_ to arrange a meeting between yourself and Dukat, and a Federation diplomat. Is that it? Have I got it all . . . m'lord?"

He smiled, "It _does_ sound rather melodramatic, doesn't it? The current, _illegitimate_ , Cardassian government will ask the Federation to help them regain the Arawath Colony. I _do_ hope you'll convey our offer of peace talks to the Federation Council, _immediately_."

Sisko closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, then he took his hand down and glared at him. "Oh, we both know I have to report it. But why would I present it as anything more than the ravings of a madman, or a congenital liar? Why should I _believe_ you, Mr. Garak?"

He clapped his hand over his heart, "Captain _,_ if you can't believe me when I've just confessed I've been lying to you for the last _decade_ , when _can_ you believe me?"

"I have been on this station far too long: that almost made sense." He sighed. "All right, let's pretend I _do_ believe that you and Dukat are allies now. Why would the Federation want to help a _liar_ and a _pirate_? No more persuasion, Mr. Garak. No more razzle-dazzle. Just give me _one good reason_ why we should even meet with you. One good reason, in ten words or less. Right now."

"Because we are _not_ the Detapa Council."

*

" _Lord_ Garak?" It came out a bit strangled—Kira was laughing so hard. "That simpering 'weasel?'"

Sisko gave her a reproving look, "Historically, Major, an hereditary nobility and . . . _weaseldom_ are _not_ mutually exclusive."

Dax looked astonished, "Benjamin! Are you saying you believe him?"

_I believe him,_ Bashir thought in shock. But then Garak had always struck him as a gentleman fallen on hard times. He glanced at Odo. The constable looked strangely satisfied—he believed it too.

"I believe very little our Mr. Garak tells me," Sisko said, "but he knows enough inside details of Dukat's operation to make me think he does have some connection to it. Dukat called for an uprising less than twenty-six hours ago. We are receiving reports of riots and sabotage on Cardassia Prime. And at least ten more warships have defected to him. When that many military units go over to the insurgents— _any_ rebellion has a good chance of toppling the government.

"This does not leave this room. One of our top negotiators will be here in three weeks to meet, privately, with Mr. Garak. We have also invited Gul Dukat, through certain covert channels. He has yet to respond."

"In other words, Captain, we're hedging our bets by dealing with both the Detapa Council _and_ its most likely successor."

"Why, Doctor, how very cynical. Yes, we are hedging our bets."

Sisko leaned back in his chair, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, you know as much as I do. Do you have anything to add?" None of the staff said anything. "In that case, you are dismissed."

Dax looked furious.

"Jadzia, what's wrong?"

"She _knew_. She _must_ have known all along."

Sisko said quietly, "Please stay, Dr. Bashir; we need to talk."

The rest of the staff filed out, all carefully not looking at him.

Sisko fixed him with a stare. "Apparently, a Cardassian underground has been run— _from this station—_ for the last decade. So we may expect, at the very least, a vigorous inquiry. As your friendship with Mr. Garak is well known, you are bound to be dragged into it."

_Here it comes_.

"I need to know how you will explain your relationship with Garak to the investigators."

"We aren't lovers, sir. We never have been."

"Doctor, it isn't your sex life, per se, the investigators will be interested in, but your _emotional_ attachment to him. An attachment that strong might make a fleet psychologist suspect some . . . ambivalence in your loyalties."

The sudden fury came from someplace deep inside him, flooding his face with heat, throwing his heartbeat into wild disorder.

He was on his feet, hands slammed palms down on the table. "I have taken just two oaths in my life. One to Apollo the Physician and one to Starfleet. _That_ is where my loyalty lies. My oath is _sacred._ Anyone who doesn't believe that can go to hell!"

" _I_ believe you, Doctor. I just want you to be prepared for the questions they may ask. We will get through this somehow, Julian. But I do wish you'd realized what a _dangerous_ man you were befriending."

*

"At this point," Elim said, "my fate is in the hands of your ruling council. But Sisko did promise to back my request." He looked exhausted.

Her door chime sounded; then it kept on, as though someone was leaning on the signal plate. She came to her feet and called out, "Come in."

The door opened; Dax stalked in and made a beeline for her.

"Ah, Commander Dax, to what do we owe—"

"You're _getting_ your damn meeting. Now shut up."

Jadzia looked at her, rage vying with contempt on that beautiful face. " _You knew_! You _must_ have known all along. Pretending to sympathize, holding my hand. And all the time, you _knew_ who Worf was chasing. You knew your . . . _Garak_ was behind it all. I lost the love of this life and you kept quiet! _I will never trust you again, you lying_ _gyth_!"

"If you are making some formal charge, Commander, I deny everything. But if you are simply saying that I value Elim's happiness over others'—well, of course I do."

"Someday," Dax said softly, "that will catch up with you." And she left without another word.

*

He'd assumed that he could safely grab a cup of coffee while Jabara prepped Mrs. Serdek. That Garak would _not_ be up and about in the middle of the night. But there he was.

The Cardassian hurried up the steps, sat down across from him and just plunged in. "After all these years, Doctor, you must realize I feel _something_ for you."

"Garak," he whispered, "this is hardly the time or the place—"

"There is no one here but us, Doctor. And this must be the time; you've been avoiding me." He gave a wry little smile. "Please relax, Julian—I am _not_ going to declare my undying love."

He sighed. "I don't think I _can_ love. I think that was carefully trained out of me, a long time ago. But I want you to know that the things I did were to help Cardassia, not to hurt you—not to deliberately hurt anyone here. I am not a nice person—but I would never just gratuitously hurt people who have been kind to me."

"Oh, but it's all right to hurt people when you have a _reason_."

"Yes. The future of Cardassia. The future of _my home_."

"And _your_ future too, 'Lord' Garak."

"Well, yes, of course."

"What do you _want_?"

"I want you to forgive me."

"And just why would I do that?"

"Because that is what humans _do_."

Suddenly very weary of having his own 'niceness' taken for granted, he stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I do have a patient in labor."

Garak stood too, "Julian, no! I did not mean to sound glib. I only meant that forgiveness is a uniquely human trait. I am _truly sorry_. I apologize. And I ask for your forgiveness."

"You lied to me about your very identity for _ten years_! And how could you endanger Worf and the task force, while the Federation sheltered you here!"

" _I_ didn't endanger them! Your witless Federation did that, when they backed the Detapa Council! When they heard the magic words 'freedom' and 'democracy' and accepted the word for the deed!"

"Garak— Just leave me alone for now. I need time to think. _Please_."

"Yes, of course. But please remember, Julian . . . you are the only _friend_ I have ever had."

Then he walked away. And Bashir had no idea if that was true, or if Garak was just manipulating him again.

*

"You do know this little detour will make us late for your own company dinner."

"Maybe I just remembered something I'm thankful _for._ "

Elim chuckled, "I assure you, my dear—you are not half as thankful as I am."

They walked on into his quarters—and came to an abrupt halt.

Dukat. Lounging on the sofa: his feet on the cushions and his discarded cloak thrown over the back. She thought he was considerably better dressed this time: black suede boots, charcoal gray trousers and a white tunic with bands of silver trim. Apparently he'd liberated the clothing stores on Arawath.

Dukat looked at Elim, then at her. "Oh dear, have I come at a bad time?"

"No," said Elim. "What do you want?"

Dukat sat up, planted his feet on the floor and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "The Federation has kindly invited me to their meeting with the ' _leader_ ' of the Royalist Party. I have neither the time nor the patience to quibble about this. I concede the point: I still have to deal with you."

His expression hardened and he rose to his feet. "Of course our original agreement is out of the question now."

Elim stepped forward, "What do you mean?"

"When we made that deal, I had one captured Klingon ship and contacts in the Cardassian fleet. You had your spy network and exclusive knowledge of the king's identity. Now, I have twenty-one ships— _and the king_." He gave a little smirk, "But I _think_ he'll grant you a conditional forgiveness with tertiary citizenship. If you still help me restore the monarchy, of course."

"When _we_ restore the monarchy, I will return to Cardassia with full citizenship restored. And I will shape my Royalist underground into a new Obsidian Order. That was the deal, _Dukat_. I lead the Order, you lead the military and we allow the king to lead a new civilian council."

_Allow?_

Just a puppet monarchy then—with these two pulling the strings. Suddenly things made much more sense.

"Honor our original agreement, or I will order a halt to all anti-government activity. No more riots, no more sabotage. You _need_ that backup on the ground!"

"You need my forces more—and you know it. Help me take Cardassia, or rot here forever. We have a week until the meeting; decide before then." He snatched up his cloak, pushed past Elim and stalked out.

"All right, what _is_ 'conditional forgiveness with tertiary citizenship?'"

Elim put a finger to his lips, then he said in Kardasi, " Computer, how did an unauthorized person gain admittance to these quarters?"

The computer voice that answered was male, and Cardassian. " _Admittance_ _was gained with a Threlkaap override key. Do you wish counter-measures added to your security protocols_?"

"Yes. Has any surveillance device been installed in these quarters?"

" _No such device has been installed._ "

She asked again, "Conditional forgiveness? Tertiary citizenship?"

"Someone convicted of a crime _may_ be allowed to expiate it by serving the state, with minimal recompense, for several years. Tertiary citizenship puts you on a par with certain more valued native workers—but you _are_ allowed to work your way back to primary citizenship."

"And Dukat will get that for you?"

"That was not the deal! I was to head one branch of the new government. At that level, I would decide all judgments."

"What will you do if he calls your bluff, dares you to call off all civil unrest?"

"Are you saying I should accept his insulting offer?"

"Oh no, this is your call. But didn't you assume from the start that at some point Dukat would betray you?"

"I thought that would come _after_ we seized power. That we'd each try to influence the king's vote in the triumvirate, make the other the odd man out. But now, he has exclusive access to the king."

"Could you pretend to accept his terms, just to get back to Cardassia? Once there, I'm sure you'd find _some_ way to take over the new Order."

"How wonderfully nefarious. And flattering; thank you, my dear. I'll think about it."

*

All the red, blue and gold HumanLight garland made an odd backdrop for two saurianoid Starfleet marines. But the humans' winter holidays reached all parts of the station now, even this little-used section of the docking ring. At a less tense moment, he would have enjoyed the decorations. He liked the human flair for public merriment. He also admired the way they infiltrated bits of their culture into each place they found themselves. Deny it though they might, humans were—in their own way—every bit as expansionist as Cardassians.

There was a subtle whoosh of displaced air and a column of transport sparkle formed just a few meters from him. The marines, stationed near sealed bulkheads at either end of this corridor, went hyper-alert and pointed their phaser rifles at the column. When the sparkle resolved into Dukat, alone and unarmed as stipulated, they lowered their weapons and snapped back to attention.

Dukat looked around, "Have we both arrived before our hosts?"

"I told Sisko our 'team' needed a moment to confer." He pointed at the small briefing room down the hall, "They're waiting for us in there."

"So what have you decided?"

" _Secondary_ citizenship."

Dukat blinked, "Excuse me?"

"The terms of conditional forgiveness are to be retroactive, with my time spent here, in exile, to count as the passage from tertiary to secondary. And I am willing to serve the state for the traditional penitent's stipend— _if_ I will still _organize_ a new intelligence service. I have been trained in espionage since I was five years old. You'd be a fool not to use me in that capacity."

This was it. If Dukat went for it, he thought he still needed the nonexistent "underground."

"Secondary citizenship?" He gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh, very well. If you convince the Federation to abandon the Detapa Council . . . you have a deal."

_Yes!_

"I accept those terms."

Dukat nodded, "Done."

It couldn't hurt to ask. "One more thing, Dukat. Who told you the king's identity?"

"Would you believe I received an anonymous tip?"

"No."

Dukat shrugged.

A Tellerite attaché in a conservative gray suit stepped out of the briefing room. "Gentlemen, if you are ready now, the meeting will begin."

Dukat swept past the young lady without a second glance. He nodded politely to her, waited a few seconds, _then_ followed Dukat into the room. As if the military aide had stepped in to look things over before the _dignitary_ made his entrance.

A round table, so no one could complain that the other party had been placed at the head of it. Sisko was seated at the table with the Federation negotiator: another _human_ , wonder of wonders. A tough, vigorous-looking man who seemed just a bit too young for his snow white hair.

Sisko and the diplomat came to their feet. "Mr. Ambassador," Sisko said, "the leaders of the Cardassian Royalist Movement: Lord Garak and Legate Dukat."

_Oh ho, and when did Dukat insist on that?_

"Gentlemen, Ambassador Kyle Riker."

They all exchanged stiff nods. Dukat and he took their places and the two humans sat back down.

"I must say," the diplomat began, "I find it fascinating that 'Lord' Garak is _also_ the station tailor."

Dukat looked like he couldn't decide whether to take offense at this slur to his "team"—or just enjoy the moment.

Garak reached for the carafe of water in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass. "Why yes, how very . . . serendipitous that I just _happened_ to spend the last decade learning all about the Federation—from the inside."

*

Someone was gently shaking her . . .

"Oh. Elim. I must have fallen asleep." She yawned and pushed herself up to a sitting position on her couch. "What time is it?"

"Just a bit after zero four hundred hours."

"I didn't expect the meeting to run through the night."

He sat down beside her. "It didn't, not quite. Dukat stayed on for a private chat."

"So what happened?"

"It seems the Federation Council has already decided to abandon the treaty with Cardassia. They'll hold a formal vote on a withdrawal by notice—but the outcome is a foregone conclusion. Given that, I think this negotiator just wanted some assurance the Royalists could form a viable government if the Detapa Council falls. Cardassia is a major player in this sector. Its instability is dangerous for everyone, including the Federation." He tried a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"All right, that's the good news. Now tell me the bad."

Dukat will let me plan a new intelligence infrastructure, but he also wants my help in reestablishing a royal court. After all, I may be the only person alive who remembers the day-to-day routine: the etiquette, the ceremonial aspects. He wants me to join him on Arawath."

He held up a hand, "I told him I _must_ stay here until 'February.' I will accompany you and Niccolo to the clinic for the surgery and the week of post-op tests. But once I have you safely back on DS9, I must leave for Arawath. The king needs me. Cardassia needs me. Do you understand?"

_So the other person is leaving first after all. Well, people leave—that's what people do._

"Yes. Yes, I do. It will be all right, Elim."

He gave her a hopeful look, "My dear, colonial society is much laxer than Cardassia itself. A Cardassian man with an alien . . . "housekeeper" is not unheard of. Perhaps you and Niccolo could remain with me until I actually return to Cardassia Prime."

"No. I'm sorry, Elim, but it's still a _Cardassian_ colony: Nicky and I would never really fit in there. And we certainly wouldn't help your reputation." She smiled, "Who knows, maybe you'll find a nice Cardassian girl."

"Once I'm restored to my rightful place, I will have _many_ nice Cardassian girls. I _am_ driouu, after all. We are not meant to be monogamous."

"Then may you find _many_ nice Cardassian girls. I certainly know you'll keep them happy. But I will still hope that someday you find that one person who makes you feel utterly _safe_. That someday you can look at _someone_ and say, ' _I will never lie to you_ ' _—_ and mean it."


	32. Chapter 32

_Alien. This place is too alien._

What an irrational thing to think about a surgical waiting room in a Cardassian hospital; _of course_ it was alien. But she wasn't feeling very rational at the moment.

She perched on the narrow bench that ran down one long wall, clutching Nicky's new backpack. Back on DS9, he'd insisted on doing his own packing and bringing along all his little-boy treasures: his tailoring tools, his Andorian marbles. And just before they put the alpha-wave inducer on his forehead, he'd asked her to watch the backpack. So she kept a firm grip on it as she endured the uncomfortable furniture and the unexpected humidity and the air that just didn't _smell_ right.

At the far end of the waiting area were the swinging doors that led into the operating rooms. The Cardassian medtechs had taken Nicky through those doors just over two hours ago.

The techs had been clothed in dark garnet red. Why did everyone wear surgical scrubs the color of their own blood, when almost no blood was spilled in surgery? Surgery, especially neurosurgery, was all computer-guided micro transport beams and nanotechnology.

Elim had been wearing the red scrubs too; he would be at Nicky's side throughout the operation. She assumed that wasn't comforting to the surgical team, but apparently he had . . . _insisted_.

Nicky looked so small when they moved him from the bed to the gurney. She'd smoothed back his hair and kissed his cheek, picked up his backpack and walked beside him—until they left her here and took her baby through those doors.

She glanced at the nurses station across the room. Good, the sour-faced nurse was gone now. She could imagine how he saw her: the alien concubine, the . . . native woman.

Dr. Zhemoor himself hadn't been _too_ condescending. When he met with Elim and her to explain the procedure, he was distantly polite to her. But then he was focused almost entirely on Elim. Zhemoor had seemed fascinated and horrified by this Cardassian who selfed a bran'gleis, then actually claimed and protected his misbegotten offspring.

But he was also very nervous. She suspected that Elim had tossed in a few references to grave bodily harm, along with the blackmail threat. Fine, let Zhemoor be afraid of Elim: fear could be a good motivator. But she treated the surgeon with the utmost respect, thanked him profusely for agreeing to help her child. If Elim could use Zhemoor's sense of self-preservation, she could appeal to his professionalism—and to his compassion, assuming he had such a thing. In that way, they would have all the bases covered.

A baseball metaphor: odd how Sisko's influence reached even here. She wished Benjamin was here now. She wished _Julian_ was here. Or . . . or Dax.

She wished her Nicky was safe on DS9, and not behind those swinging doors.

"Miss Devlin?" The voice startled her.

It was that nurse; he'd come back and was walking up to her.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to surprise you." He held out a mug, "I thought you might like some _jgoie_ tea." The words were in halting, Kardasi-accented Standard, but the voice was unexpectedly kind.

She despised jgoie. "I . . . Thank you." She blinked sudden tears out of her eyes, took the mug and pretended to take a sip, then handed it back. "That was very thoughtful."

There was a noise: a metal gurney being pushed back through the swinging doors. She froze in place.

The techs' footsteps and the hum of an antigrav motor, coming toward her. And Elim's voice.

"Devlin. _Devlin, look at me._ "

She made herself look up at his face, terrified of what she might see there.

"The child is _all right_ , my dear. The operation went well."

Then he sat down beside her on the bench and put his arm around her. And she could finally look at the gurney and see her baby there. Back with her. _Safe._

*

Devlin looked around the clinic lawn and smiled. This spot had been their welcome refuge after each day of post-op tests. Now the testing was finished and everything looked fine.

For the first time in years, she felt almost relaxed. Just one last loose end to tie up, and she was sure Elim would handle that. At the moment, however, he was just sitting beside her on the wrought iron garden bench and happily watching the _fletlim_ game.

When they'd come to sit in their usual spot, a group of convalescent soldiers in brown hospital coveralls were just choosing up sides. One captain approached her and asked in broken Standard if Nicky was allowed to play. He didn't know fletlim? No problem. This was just a casual pickup game. They could show him a couple of moves and put him in as goalie. Nicky had been thrilled to be included and listened to their instructions with great seriousness.

Now the two teams were running around the lawn in the cool evening air, contending for a ball about the size of a grapefruit.

One of Nicky's teammates caught the ball, dropped it to the ground and kicked it down the lawn. An opposing player intercepted it, stopping it with his foot. Then he picked it up, yelled, "For the point!" and bowled it at their makeshift goalpost: a low planter full of pink flowers.

Nicky ran to the ball, caught it on his foot, got it into the air with a wobbly juggle and grabbed it.

Elim called out, "Well played, Niccolo!"

Seeing Nicky run and play like this only five days after the surgery was immensely reassuring. But the way he related to these soldiers was a bit of a shock. He seemed to fit in so easily. And in this setting, accepted so readily into their rough and tumble play, he seemed . . . older, somehow. But then these soldiers seemed so _young._ Someday they might be the fiends described so eloquently by the Bajorans. But for now, they were just nice young men teaching a little "mixed-breed" boy a Kardasi game.

Would they still do that if they knew he was actually an inbred Cardassian? Probably not. Everyone here who thought he was half human seemed charmed by him. But those few who knew the truth could barely hide their revulsion. And they _watched_ her little boy, as if they expected him to suddenly revert to some feral state and attack them.

Elim leaned closer and whispered, "Mr. Vlanit is with us again. There, by the door."

She shot a look at the main building. The clinic records clerk, a lanky young man in an ill fitting black suit, was leaning back against the wall, his hands in his pockets—trying to be inconspicuous.

"What have you found out?" she whispered back. "Does Vlanit know?"

"I'm still not sure. He may have seen the clinic's genetic scan before I removed it, but there's no mention of that in his monitored journal. I'll need to search his quarters for any clandestine notes."

He glanced at one of the auxiliary buildings. "In fact, I should do that now, while I know he's out here. We leave tomorrow and _something_ is troubling him.

"Distract him for a few minutes so he doesn't notice me heading for the staff apartments."

*

No camera in the stairwell or the second floor hallway, one of those shoddy Gleph Brothers locks on the door—really, the security in this place was appalling. He glanced up and down the corridor, picked the lock and stepped into the apartment.

He looked around, taking a moment to orient himself and get a feel for the occupant. Vlanit's front room was neat, tidy . . . and oh-so-correct. The _correct_ patriotic aphorisms framed on the walls. The _correct_ books and periodicals in the library cache. A "Kardasi Youth" certificate in a gilded frame sat on the polished credenza.

Oh dear, this did look like trouble.

He went to the window and peered out through a gap in the curtains. He could just see the game from here. And there were _two_ players not dressed in brown. The small one in blue was Nicky. The figure in black . . . Vlanit!

She'd persuaded him to join the game. That would certainly keep him distracted.

_Well done, my dear._

Now where would Vlanit hide a neighborhood surveillance diary?

He checked all the usual unimaginative places, being careful to touch as little as possible: The access panel under the replicator, behind the couch cushions, at the back of the bedroom closet. Under the bed? Oh, surely not.

But he sighed, got down on the floor to reach under and . . . Got it!

He bypassed the security code and found an entry from the previous evening.

"Everyone is lying to me, covering something up. But what? The child's sire is driouu: there is no wife to be upset about an alien mistress.

"It looks Cardassian—could it actually be a bran'gleis? Any decent man would have had it put down at birth. And is he getting its defect corrected to pass it off as a normal child? It still carries the gene for travent'lo—and who knows what other deformities!

"My duty is clear: I can't let it contaminate the sanctioned gene pool. I'll study it one more time, just to be sure. Then I must report this to the proper authorities."

He lowered the padd and considered his options. Vlanit was about to notify the Eugenics Ministry. He seemed like such a . . . _conscientious_ young citizen there was no point in offering him a bribe. And he would never have _done_ anything to make himself susceptible to blackmail: that priggish type never did.

He could always frighten Vlanit into silence, but a follow-up campaign might be necessary to make sure he stayed frightened. And it would just be too risky to run that from his new post on Arawath.

*

He saw Vlanit heading for the apartments when the game finally broke up, well after dark. He waited beside the door, tripped the youth as he walked in and snapped his neck before he hit the floor. That part was quick and, he assumed, relatively painless.

It took considerably longer to scrub his own DNA from the apartment. Then he deleted every mention of Nicky, Devlin or himself from the diary, wiped the padd casing clear, pressed Vlanit's prints back onto it and tossed it into a drawer.

The sun was up by the time he arranged the records clerk in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the staircase, his head twisted to the side.

_"That poor boy. Fell down the stairs and broke his neck."_

Putting the corpse in a public spot would make the warning quite explicit to the others who knew about Nicky. But it also looked rather . . . dramatic. A bit of artistic license, perhaps, but a true professional tried to take his work beyond the merely functional.

He left the building and reached their guest bungalow without incident, walking in quietly to let Devlin and the child sleep a bit longer. But the bungalow was empty, all the luggage packed and ready to be loaded into the ground-car for the ride to the Belfon spaceport. He must have just missed them; they'd probably gone to the clinic cafeteria for breakfast. If he wanted some too, he'd have to hurry.

He tossed everything he was wearing into the recycle unit, showered and changed into a severe black and gray suit. Then he used the guest computer terminal to run one last check. There was still no copy of the clinic's own genetic scan, or any reference to Nicky's actual heritage, in any clinic record. He was quite sure that now there never would be.

On his way to the main building, he saw a coroner's van parked in the street. A medtech and two ward clerks were standing on the lawn—looking at the residential building and speaking quietly.

Good, they'd already found the body.

There were only a few people in the cafeteria. Devlin sat alone at a table in the back. She was dressed for the Cardassian-norm temperature: white leggings and short-sleeved tunic, casual low-heeled shoes. That striking auburn hair was pulled back in a simple, elegant braid.

He got a bowl of steamed _latt_ and a cup of red leaf tea and went to join her, shooting a quick glance around the room as he sat down. "Where is Niccolo?"

"Back in the prep room; the replicator tech is showing him around." She smiled at him over her tea cup, "It looks like the famous driouu charm is still working."

He smiled back and reached for his own cup.

"I overheard an interesting conversation on the way here," she said. "Something about the clinic's records clerk and . . . an accident?"

So she already knew. And she was undoubtedly upset: humans did not understand certain . . . harsh necessities.

He took a sip of his tea, put the cup down and fiddled with his silverware. "Ah, yes, I heard about that too. It seems the young man fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. A tragic end for one so young." He picked up his spoon and focused all his attention on his cereal.

There was a chink of china as Devlin set her cup down, then a moment of silence.

"Was it a necessary end?"

Startled, he looked back up at her, "Excuse me?"

"It was tragic, but was it—necessary?"

"Oh, absolutely necessary, I assure you."

"Good." She picked up the cup and took a dainty sip.

"My dear Devlin, sometimes you astound me."

"Elim dear, have you noticed that people never _really_ know each other?"


	33. Chapter 33

Riding back to the Belfon spaceport, she looked out at peaceful suburban neighborhoods and then field after field of rulot vines heavy with ripe yellow gourds. Elim was next to her. Nicky sat up front, happily chatting with the driver. How wonderful it was just to hear his voice. How wonderful to know he no longer faced a lifetime of medical watchfulness. Her son was healthy and happy; that part of her life was finally _right._

As for other parts . . . She took Elim's hand and he smiled at her. They'd be back on DS9 by this evening; he'd leave for Arawath in a day or two. But after being so afraid that something would go wrong during the surgery, _that_ sort of loss seemed more bearable. Inevitably, her life path and Elim's were diverging. It was just time to stop being so melodramatic about it. Relationships ended, people moved on. She had survived that before; she could do it again.

She would tell Nicky it was a sudden emergency, that Cardassia _needed_ his father. And maybe he would be comforted by her half-truths. Maybe the innocence of childhood would make things a little bit easier for a couple of habitual liars like Elim and herself.

*

Elim stifled a yawn, then he gave her an apologetic look across the small card table. But she could hardly fault him for being bored when passengers all over the rec room were yawning and fidgeting, or just watching the warp-distorted stars outside the viewport.

The pudgy little purser had been droning on about the shipboard rules for what felt like hours. He seemed familiar. She'd never been on this ship, the _Estrellita,_ before. Maybe he'd been one of the officers on _La Gallega_ , the ship she'd come to DS9 on _._ It was part of the same passenger line.

Nicky was giving the purser his undivided attention, absorbing all the "important rules." Perhaps Elim was right: Cardassians _did_ have an inborn need for guidelines, for order. But Elim had also taught him to have his _own_ rules. And above all else, Elim was a survivor. Turning Nicky's education over to him might be the best thing she'd ever do for her son.

The purser raised his voice, trying to compel their attention by sheer volume, "I _reiterate_ : those holding a reservation for the _second_ dining—"

A blinding white light washed across the viewport and the ship lurched violently to one side. She grabbed the edge of the table and for a few stomach-churning seconds she felt the room tilt at a sharp angle. A roulette wheel and a rack of holo-emitters slid down the deck and crashed against the far wall. There were screams from the passengers—and truly terrifying popping sounds from the metal hull.

Then there was a tremor as the artificial gravity reoriented itself—and the deck felt level again. Anyone standing had been knocked off their feet. Here and there a chair had overturned, dumping its occupant onto the deck. Their table hadn't moved though; it must be bolted down.

"Nicky, are you all right?"

He pointed at the viewport, "Look, Mommy!"

For a second, she couldn't tell what had excited him. There was nothing outside the viewport now but a field of stars.

_Stars_ , not a smear of light streaks. They'd dropped out of warp.

Elim leaned across the table, pitching his voice for her ears only, "That was a direct hit from a ship's phaser array. We are under attack and they just took out our warp drive." He stood up, "I'm going to the bridge. Take the child to our stateroom and stay there, unless there is an order to abandon ship."

"But, Elim—"

"Get out of the way and let the crew do their job. I'll join you as soon as I can, but I must know who is attacking and what our defenses are." He wound his way between the tables and hurried out the door.

The purser got to his feet and tried to calm the passengers. "Gentlebeings, gentlebeings"—

They were just getting up when the ship jolted again. She grabbed the edge of the table and stayed on her feet. So did Nicky. There was no flash of light this time. Their assailant must have hit some target on the other side of the ship.

"Attention: this is Captain Toledano. We are under attack by an unidentified party. All crew report to damage control stations. All passengers, go at once to your quarters. Anyone found outside their cabin during this emergency will be subject to arrest. You will be given further instructions shortly."

The other passengers were looking numbly at each other, but she had a feeling that once the shock wore off there would be a mad scramble for the corridor. She did not want to be caught up in that. She scooped up Nicky and headed for the door.

"Mommy, wait!"

"Your father said to go to our stateroom, and the captain agrees with him, so we are _going_ to our stateroom. It will be all right, Nicky. The . . . the grown-ups will fix everything."

*

Bashir had just sat down to lunch with Margo when he was paged back to the infirmary. He gave her a rueful smile, "Are you sure you want to marry a doctor?"

She waved her hand, "Go take care of it; I'll be fine."

He got back up, gave her a kiss and started out of the replimat.

"Oh, _Julian_."

He looked back at her.

"I shall miss you _desperately_." She gave him that mischievous grin, "But can I have your spice pudding?"

He made a face at her, then hurried away, chuckling.

When he walked into the infirmary Jabara nodded at his office. "The captain's on the comm."

Sisko's expression was grim, "Doctor, we need a fully equipped medical team on the _Defiant_. We've just received a distress call from the SS _Estrellita_. They are under attack, just this side of the Cardassian border. Presumably by pirates, the assailants haven't been identified. The captain reports that their warp drive is off-line and their shields have failed. He's afraid they're about to be boarded."

_Garak's ship._

He could feel the fear as an actual physical chill on his skin.

"It will take several hours to reach her present position. Hurry, Doctor."

*

_So much for staying ahead of the crowd!_

The corridor was a madhouse. She was jostled by the mob of panicked passengers, almost run down by a team of burly crewmen headed in the opposite direction. Red emergency lights were flashing, a warning siren assaulted her ears—and Nicky was squirming in her arms, trying to get down.

"Mommy! I have to go back! My new backpack is under the chair!"

"We'll go back for it later. We have to get to our stateroom."

The ship jolted again. She just managed to keep her balance and keep moving. Another phaser hit? Was it pirates? They weren't uncommon in this border region. And if the ship was boarded by pirates, sending the passengers to their cabins wouldn't keep them safe. But that seemed to be the standard procedure.

A Grazerite woman in floral resort wear came barreling out of a side corridor and ran into her. She staggered into the bulkhead—hitting her funny bone and dropping Nicky. She swore and rubbed her elbow. The Grazerite rushed past without a word.

"Nicky, are you—"

He was gone.

She looked back and saw him fighting his way against the tide of passengers—heading back to the recreation room. Damn it, this was no time for Cardassian single-mindedness!

He slipped around a group of Teswithans in cabin steward's uniforms, ran between two crewmen in EVA suits and disappeared in the crowd. She followed him as quickly as she could, pushing her way through the mob. By the time she reached the rec room door everyone had rushed past her and the corridor was empty.

She walked in, "Niccolo, that was very—"

Nicky was standing at their table, clutching his backpack and staring at the viewport.

No—at where the viewport had been.

A jagged hole, several meters wide, reached from the deck to the overhead. Just outside that, she saw a shimmer. That last blast had taken out part of the hull. Now there was nothing between them and the vacuum of space but an emergency force field. And to inflict this level of damage, the attackers must have taken out the defensive shields. If they were pirates, and the shields were down—this ship was about to be boarded.

She dashed across the rubble of transparent aluminum shards and shredded furniture cushions, picked up Nicky and ran for the door.

"Mommy, that man is hurt!" He pointed. "That man who was explaining the rules!"

She looked back. Oh no, the little purser—covered in blood and obviously dead.

"People are coming to help him. We have to get to our stateroom— _right now_."

*

Packing back on DS9, she'd tossed a knife into her suitcase, just out of habit. If they were about to be boarded by pirates, she was damn well going to be armed. Where _was_ it? She stopped pulling clothing out and just upended the bag over her bunk.

There it was. She tucked the small dagger into the waistband of her leggings. With the loose-fitting tunic dropped back over it, it was well concealed.

Nicky stood watching her, his eyes wide, still holding his backpack.

"Just put that on, then you won't keep losing it." She helped him shrug back into it.

The stateroom door opened and she jumped—but it was only Elim.

"I couldn't find out anything. Whoever is out there can't be identified. Some sort of damp—"

She was frozen in place. She could see Nicky, also stopped in mid-movement—and Elim, running toward them—but she couldn't move a muscle. A sensation like a million tiny insects crawling over her skin, a swirling shimmer in the air, a few seconds of disorientation, then—blankness.

More shimmer, fading rapidly. The stateroom was gone. Nicky was still by her side, but now they were standing on . . . a transporter pad. She took a deep breath and looked around.

A ship's transporter room. But it seemed too big, too tidy, for a pirate ship. A clean utilitarian design, but with few right angles. The obliqueness felt oddly familiar . . .

They were on a Cardassian ship.

She looked for the transporter control console, and her guess was confirmed. Across the room, two Cardassian men stood behind the console. The transporter tech, his hands still on the controls, wore a Cardassian military uniform.

The other was an older man: heavy and jowly, with streaks of gray in his black hair. He was in civilian clothing: a sweater with leather patches at the elbows worn over his tunic. He looked for all the world like someone's favorite uncle. He also looked surprised.

"Why, you must be the lovely Devlin I've heard so much about," he said in Standard. "This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear."

He walked over to them. She stepped off the pad. Nicky stepped down too, looking around the room with bright-eyed curiosity.

"And _this_ is the young man who scored an _eighty-nine_ on the Muthertho-Gilbretz test." He reached down and ruffled Nicky's hair.

Nicky stiffened up and pressed against her.

"Oh my, you _do_ look like Garak at that age. But Elim is such a naughty boy. I keep sending people to bring him back to me and he won't _go_ with them."

He smiled at Nicky—a smile that gave no warmth at all to his cold gray eyes.

"So now _you've_ come to live with me, in Elim's place. But what shall I have you _call_ me?"

He gave a deep sigh. "I guess we'll stick with 'Mentor Enabran.'"


	34. Chapter 34

_It can't be him!_

Enabran Tain. The monster.

He was alive. He was _here_. And when he couldn't recover Elim, he'd decided to start afresh with Elim's son. Another innocent to torture and mold.

Her son. Her Nicky.

He was speaking to her in Kardasi now. What was he saying? She was so frightened!

—"assuming you do speak our language. And you know who I am, don't you, my dear?"

She had to stall him, keep him off-balance until they could escape.

"You are Enabran Tain," she said in her very best Kardasi. "And I'm sure we can work something out: I have _no_ intention of ending up like Lady Garak."

Tain blinked in surprise, "What utter treachery. Well. It seems Elim has found a true soul mate. I didn't want you beamed in. I should have you removed now."

"I'm helpful to Elim; I'd be helpful to you. Unless you simply have too many _human_ operatives."

She could see the calculation in those predator's eyes. Just get rid of her? Or take the chance and possibly gain an asset?

A voice spoke from mid-air, "Mr. Tain. They may have gotten off a distress call. If your guest is aboard, we should return to—"

"Think before you speak, Captain: the boy's mother is here too." His eyes narrowed, "I am coming up to the bridge—and then you will explain _how_ that ship got a distress call out."

"As you wish, Mr. Tain."

"My dear, I _will_ let you know when I've decided what to do with you." He looked at the transporter tech, "Gil. Take the woman to a holding cell. Then take the boy to the wardroom and watch him until I come for him."

*

She leaned back against the wall of the turbolift, trying to look unconcerned, nonthreatening. They _must_ escape from this gil before they reached the brig and she was separated from Nicky.

She could feel the dagger pressing against her hip. It was obvious that no one considered her dangerous. She hadn't been searched for weapons, only one man guarded her. Should she pull the knife now, rely on the element of surprise?

No. He would still be more than a match for her: a trained soldier, much bigger, with heavy Cardassian musculature. There must be another way.

_Turbolift._ Something about a turbolift was nagging at the back of her mind . . .

Years ago—that drill! That trick Bashir pulled on the militiamen role-playing "shape-shifters."

The lift stopped, the doors opened. The soldier gestured for them to step out first.

She looked out; no one around. As Nicky and she cleared the doors, she spoke in Kardasi, loudly and clearly.

" _Computer,_ emergency speed to the lowest level!"

She whipped around. The doors were closing too slowly; the soldier got a hand between them, kept them open . . . and the lift motor engaged anyway.

A _Cardassian_ turbolift, with none of O'Brien's added safety protocols.

He yelled, " _Computer_ , canc—"

She shoved him back. He grabbed her wrist and she pulled away, trying to break his grip. He was jerked downward as the lift descended, pulling her down to the corridor floor.

The lift floor dropped out from under him. The lift ceiling came down on that part of him that was still inside the turbolift. There was a powerful tug, a horrid crunching sound—

And she was on her knees—with his severed arm lying on the floor just in front of her.

She lurched back to her feet and looked down the corridor . . . There, a security camera . . . just starting the slow pan toward their end of the hallway. There was a chance they hadn't been spotted yet.

Nicky was standing stock still, staring down at the soldier's arm. What a thing for him to see! She'd worry about that later. They had to get away, find a place to hide, _now_. She picked up Nicky and started running.

"Mommy, look!"

"I . . . I know, Nicky. We can talk about it _later_."

"Mommy!"

"Nicky, don't look at it!"

He put his hands on her face and peered into her eyes. " _Mother_ , look now!"

She looked back. The arm had disappeared. In its place, there was a gelatinous, amber puddle. Then the substance began to move: flowing to the lift doors, and oozing under them.

*

The astonishment in Sisko's voice matched Bashir's own confusion. 

"They _left_? What do you mean, they _left_?"

On the _Defiant's_ viewscreen, the image of the _Estrillita's_ New Iberian captain was larger than life, his expression a strange mixture of relief and puzzlement. "They took out our defensive shields, crippled our warp engine, blew a chunk out of our port hull and killed our purser—and then they just _left_. We expected to be boarded, but they never—"

Sounds of a scuffle. The captain turned away and snapped, "Get him off my bridge!" There was a yelp of pain from someone—and Garak appeared at Toledano's side.

"Sisko! They took Devlin and Niccolo!"

_What!_ But why . . .

Two bridge officers grabbed Garak, started to drag him away. Sisko snapped, "Captain, hold on." Toledano gestured for his officers to wait.

"That seems unlikely, Mr. Garak. Perhaps a search of—"

"I _saw_ them beamed out! Obviously, the whole purpose of the attack was to stop this ship and force Miss Devlin and my son into our cabin—into a _known_ location. We have to go after that ship!"

Sisko held up his hand, "One moment, Mr. Garak.

"Captain Toledano, we will reach you in twenty minutes; what assistance do you require?"

"Just make sure that ship doesn't come back."

Bashir spoke up, "Captain, ask him if they need medical personnel."

Toledano heard him. "No, our only casualty was poor Mr. Rocha and he's beyond help. Sisko, our purser was a hero. He got the passengers out of harm's way before he sought shelter for himself and he paid for it with his life. A _hero_. Put that in your report."

"I will, Captain."

Garak started to say something. Sisko cut him off, "We're going after them, Mr. Garak. We will pick you up on the way."

*

She was terrified. She was exhausted. And she desperately needed to empty her bladder.

She listened carefully for any noise from the main corridor outside the cargo hold. No sound of a search party yet. There were two exits from the room: the door they'd entered from the corridor and an open archway that led back into a warren of connecting halls and storage bays. Maybe it was safe to hide behind these crates and rest for a few minutes.

She leaned down and whispered, "Nicky, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

He bit his lip and nodded.

She pointed, "Then step behind those barrels and go."

His eyes went wide. "On the _floor_?"

"Do you like that Mr. Tain?"

"No! He's scary!"

"Then go pee on his ship."

A big grin, "Pee on his ship!" He ducked behind the barrels.

They'd been avoiding the search parties for at least a couple of hours. Elim had _seen_ them beamed out. Rescue was on the way; they just had to avoid capture. But their chances were better if they kept moving. Tain's people were probably employing a search pattern, trying to close a net on them.

Tain's people. Who the hell _were_ Tain's people? Were the crew _all_ shape-shifters disguised as Cardassians? Had Tain formed some unholy alliance with the Dominion, somehow talked them out of killing him? She wouldn't be surprised: where had Elim learned those survival skills?

Then again—was that really Tain?

On reflection . . . Yes, it was. The shape-shifters could copy an individual's physical appearance with great accuracy. But no one could copy the waves of pure malevolence she felt emanating from that man.

"I _did_ it, Mommy," a happy little voice whispered at her side. "I _peed_ on his _ship_!"

"Good for you. I'm going back there for a minute. _Stay down_."

Behind the stacks of barrels were rows of metal shelves stacked with small, lidded containers. She pulled the lid off one: hypospray ampules filled with some white liquid. She dumped out the ampules and used the container as a chamber pot. Then she returned to Nicky and sat down on the floor.

A sound in the main corridor. Footsteps, coming closer. She stood up, picked up Nicky and walked swiftly to the archway in the far wall.

*

The stitch in her side was a hot brand. The search party behind them was closing in. And now there were also footsteps approaching from somewhere up ahead.

This looked like a crew deck. If Cardassian ships followed the same pattern as their space stations, there were no back exits in the quarters. If they hid in one they'd be trapped. But where else— A turbolift, just up ahead! She shifted Nicky to her hip and ran.

She reached the doors, hit the signal plate. Let there be a car waiting here!

The doors opened; she flung herself into the car, dragged in a lungful of air so she could speak. "Computer," she said in Kardasi, "stopping on each deck and opening the doors for ten seconds each time, take this car to the highest level of the ship."

The doors closed, the lift started upward. When the search parties met, would they realize where Nicky and she must have gone? She hoped so. Let them waste their time tracking the passage of this lift car.

"Then take it as far . . . starboard as possible, still pausing at each access point." There, that should confuse them until someone thought to just order a lockdown of the car.

They reached the next level up, the doors opened. She took a quick peek out. There were two soldiers at the end of the corridor. But they hadn't seen her. She ducked back in.

At the next floor the corridor was empty. She got out, picked a direction at random and walked rapidly away from the turbolift. But how much good would her trick actually do? The search parties were closing in on them. It was her and a five-year-old child against a ship full of enemies.

*

She peeked around the corner. Good, no one in the short cross-corridor. There was a large ride-on floor scrubber parked by the wall: dark green, about a meter wide. Probably abandoned in mid-job when its operator joined the search. It was big enough to hide behind, if you sat on the floor. Or at least they'd be hidden from one end of the cross-corridor. It wasn't much of a hiding place, but this section of the ship didn't have many. And she _had_ to sit down.

She sank to the deck with Nicky in her arms and leaned back against the bulkhead.

Jolt, jolt, jolt, jolt, jolt!

A rapid series of sharp impacts, felt through the deck and the bulkhead. The scrubber rocked on its antigrav sled and slid away from the wall. The lights flickered and somewhere in the distance an alarm began to blare.

That felt like the phaser attack on the _Estrellita_ , but she didn't think ships could fire that fast—

The _Defiant_! It _had_ to be—with its special rapid-fire weaponry.

"Nicky, that's Captain Sisko . . . and your daddy. They've come to get us!"

"All hands to battle—"

The comm went off, then back on again. This time, it was Tain's voice. "Duty shifts one and two to battle stations. Shift three, continue search."

Well, at least their odds had improved. Was Sisko trying to get the shields down? Then they should stop running and let him get a transporter lock. But not here. They should get closer to the hull, make it easier for the _Defiant_ 's sensors to find them. She got to her feet, settled Nicky on her hip again and whispered, "We have to get closer to the outside of the ship."

The nearest hull section must be . . . that way. She started walking.

"Mommy—it's quicker to go through the maintenance tunnels."

"Nicky, we'd get lost."

He gave her one of those _Garak_ looks: raised eyeridges, who-do-you-think-you're-dealing-with? "But I'm part Cardassian; I have—"

"—a perfect sense of direction," she finished for him.

Could she rely on the memory of a five year old?

A five-year-old _Cardassian_. A Cardassian with a photographic memory, training by Elim Garak and a fascination with military space vessels.

"Where's the nearest access panel?"

*

Bashir grabbed the edge of a console to steady himself as conn officer Park Reese banked the _Defiant_ into another wide swing around the pirate vessel. Garak managed to keep his balance without that help, but he looked haggard.

"Dax, get that interference cleared up, we're damn near flying blind."

"I'm _trying_ , Benjamin! I've never seen this dampening technology before."

The image on the viewscreen was badly pixelated, but there was a large shape that had to be the other ship. _Something_ registered on their targeting scanners, enough to let them fire in the right general direction.

The _Defiant_ swept past the pirate ship, Tom Coatney at tactical firing phasers as they went.

Reese started the turn for another run—and the image on the viewscreen cleared.

"Good work, Old Man!"

"It wasn't me. Coatney must have hit their field generator."

The _Defiant_ completed its arc, and the viewscreen showed—

A Cardassian ship, a Galor-class!

Sisko swiveled to look at them, " _Mr. Garak,_ if that is one of Dukat's ships . . . "

"Benjamin, I have their warp signature. It's the _Avenger._ "

"Ah! The _first_ Cardassian ship to _vanish._ Sound familiar?"

Garak shook his head, "No; the Royalists have no ship called _Avenger._ "

"Mr. Garak—"

"If that was _Dukat_ out there, don't you think I'd _say_ so!"

Sisko regarded him carefully, "Yes, I suppose you would."

The _Avenger_ disappeared from the viewscreen. "They've dropped out of warp," Dax said. "We overshot them."

"Reese, slow to impulse—go back and find them." The captain turned to Miles, "Get down to the transporter room; scan for Niccolo and Miss Devlin the minute we find that ship again."

"Aye, sir." O'Brien headed for the door.

"Go with him, Doctor. We don't know what shape they'll be in."

"Garak, are you coming?"

"I'd like to follow the situation from here for just a bit, Doctor. I'll join you directly."

*

She watched the Changeling through a small vent in the maintenance hatch. It was the third one she'd spotted. They all looked a bit like the constable; but with facial features even less defined. He was searching each room along this outer corridor, accompanied by two Cardassian soldiers. She assumed they _were_ real Cardassians. There was no reason for only one shape-shifter to drop the disguise, while the others kept the more difficult form.

The shifter seemed to be in charge. Was that the setup here—Cardassian troops under Changeling control? But what part did Tain play? He seemed to think he was in command, but it looked like the shape-shifters were spying on him. That transporter tech had been impersonating some Cardassian junior officer.

She'd felt the impacts of attack after attack while they traveled through the maintenance tunnels. The shields must be down by now. Why didn't Sisko beam them out?

*

Where was the _Defiant_? It had been _hours._

Voices in the corridor. She put a finger to her lips to warn Nicky and peeked through the vent. Another Changeling, rushing down the corridor with a Cardassian officer. It was the Cardassian who was talking and she sounded enraged.

"But this is insane! We should be helping with the repairs, not looking for some human and her half-breed brat!"

"Then _find_ them. Internal sensors show human life signs in this section; your men just have to pinpoint them. Order another sweep."

They hurried on, still arguing.

She hugged Nicky and whispered, "Help will come soon, I promise."

But her mind was reeling.

Half-breed.

_Tain doesn't know!_

He'd sent that Bolian professor to test Nicky's intelligence before he bothered to kidnap him. And he must have known about the travent'lo: he'd waited until it was corrected. But he _hadn't_ discovered that Nicky was a bran'gleis—that he _had_ no human DNA.

Nicky had been beamed aboard this ship because he was standing so close to _her._ That Changeling transporter operator must have picked up both human and Cardassian bio-signs, made a snap judgment that he'd found the "half-breed" he'd been told to look for—and simply beamed over everyone in that small area.

Now they thought they were picking up non-Cardassian readings from her _and from Nicky_. But they were only tracking _her_. _She_ was leading the search parties to Nicky—over and over.

They had to stay here, near the hull, where the _Defiant_ 's sensors could pick out her human bio-signs. If she kept Nicky close to her, they'd be beamed off together too.

But they couldn't stay here. Sisko had called off the attack. The _Defiant_ had been disabled, or this ship had given him the slip. And another search party would come down the corridor at any moment.

No. _She_ couldn't stay here. _She_ was endangering Nicky. Without her to trigger the internal sensors and the tricorders, he was just another Cardassian on a ship full of Cardassians. He would be invisible to the search grid. If she left him.

_Leave my baby?_

But he wasn't a baby, no matter how she might see him. He was, developmentally, closer to a human nine or ten year old.

_I wouldn't leave a ten year old to fend for himself either!_

But that was his only hope. She was a red flag, leading the search parties right to him.

She had to stay away—and lure them away—until Sisko renewed the attack.

_Please let this be the right thing to do._

"Nicky. I'm going to leave you hidden here, _just for a little while,_ so the soldiers will follow me and you can rest. I'll come back soon and then Captain Sisko will beam us over to the _Defiant_. _Stay right here and don't make any noise._ "

"But, Mommy—"

" _Niccolo._ I am _telling_ you to stay here."

"Yes, Mommy." Scared—but trying so very hard to be brave.

She peered through the vent; no one there. She pushed out the panel, crawled out and looked up and down the corridor. No one in sight. No camera.

She leaned back inside the tunnel and hugged her son.

" _I love you, Nicky. Stay hidden_!"

She pulled back, snapped the panel into place, noted the numbers on it.

Deck 6. Section 4. Maintenance Panel 18.

And she made herself walk away.


	35. Chapter 35

Bashir stood at the back of the _Defiant_ 's small transporter room, out of O'Brien's way.

They'd found the _Avenger_ again, adrift in space. Their last attack must have taken out its impulse engine too, and crippled its shields. Those shields were fluctuating wildly: failing momentarily, then struggling back on again. But for right now—they were down.

O'Brien said, "I had them for a second, Captain. There are human readings over there. But they're moving; I can't get a lock."

Sisko's voice came back over the comm, "Beam Miss Devlin and the boy over here the minute they stop moving."

This was maddening. The _Avenger_ was helpless, but they could do nothing to press the advantage. The only system left to target was life support; taking that out would endanger Devlin and Nicky. And the _Defiant_ 's entire crew wouldn't be a sufficient boarding party against the number of troops a ship that size would carry.

The only option left was to find Nicky and Devlin and beam them off. Which meant he had a decision to make. Now. Should he just hope they'd be beamed in together? Or should he tell O'Brien to look for one human—and one very small Cardassian? Keeping the secret was important. But saving the child—

He heard running footsteps in the corridor and Garak burst through the door: wild-eyed, breathless and brandishing a Starfleet phaser.

Had he stayed behind just to break into a weapons locker? Oh, of course he had!

The Cardassian ran to the transporter and stepped onto the platform. "Chief! I know their shields are down. Beam me over there!"

Sisko again, "Is that Garak? _No one_ is to beam to that ship, Mr. O'Brien. That would only give them another hostage."

"Chief, _I beg you_ , beam me to the last spot where you saw human readings!"

"Sisko's right—we have to let O'Brien get them back!"

Garak dropped to his knees, "O'Brien, _please_. What if that were Keiko and little Yoshi over there? What would _you_ do?" He burst into tears. " _Miles—_ I thought you were my _friend_."

O'Brien reached for the controls.

"No!"

Too late. Garak disappeared in a swirl of transport sparkle.

***

The moment he rematerialized, he raised the phaser and looked around, taking in every detail of his surroundings in frantic haste.

Well, there weren't many details. A ship's corridor, gray and utilitarian. Empty, for the moment. He made a mental note to keep "O'Brien" and "sentimentality" linked in his mind. Then he got up, brushed off his trousers, walked along the curving hallway and found a door with a room number on it.

Ah, he was in the outermost ring corridor. So Devlin had gotten herself and the child out here, to be picked up more easily by the _Defiant_ 's sensors. But where were they now? They must be somewhere nearby; he just had to find them before the crew did. He hadn't the slightest doubt that the crew was _looking_ for Devlin and the boy. If she hadn't managed to escape her captors by now, she wasn't the Devlin _he_ knew.

"Attention Deck Ten, Section Five: Internal sensors have detected a beam-in in your outer corridor. Re-form your search party and capture them."

_That voice_!

Tain was _dead._ _Dead,_ in the Gamma Quadrant. He'd been dead for _years._

_You live in my nightmares; isn't that enough_!

But now he knew. He accepted. Tain was alive.

And Tain would undoubtedly want to kill him.

*

Devlin dropped to her hands and knees and scurried into a shadowy corner of the deserted galley. She pressed herself back against the cold, metallic side of one bank of replicators and listened as the search party ran past. She'd thrown them off her trail again. The thought brought little satisfaction. She was too full of fear, too full of guilt, to feel anything else.

Her heart screamed at her: _You left Nicky unprotected; the soldiers will find him! Maybe they're taking him to Tain, to the monster, right now! You made the wrong decision and Nicky is going to pay for it with his sanity, with the crippling of his very psyche._

But her _mind_ told her, coldly, dispassionately: _You chose this course; now see it out. Get their attention again, keep them away from Nicky's hiding place until rescue comes. Keep moving!_

She got back up and started running again.

*

He'd seen O'Brien frustrated before—but not like this.

"Captain, they've got their shields back up! You've got to get them down and _keep_ them down!"

Sisko's voice came back, "We are about to do just that, Mr. O'Brien. Stand by." And then he snapped, " _Reese_ , bring her around."

*

She peeked out of the Jeffries tube. Nobody there; she'd lost them again. She leaned against the ladder, dared to stop moving and rest for just a second. She was attracting more and more search parties. It was working: she was drawing them away from Nicky. But how much longer could she keep moving?

She stepped out of the tube and started down the passageway . . .

Jolt, jolt, jolt, jolt, jolt!

The ship shook with the impacts; she lost her footing and fell flat on the deck.

The _Defiant_ was back!

She jumped up and ran back to the Jeffries tube.

_Mommy is coming, Nicky!_

*

Finally, panel eighteen. She looked down the corridor; no one in sight.

_All right, Benjamin, we'll stay put now and trust you to get us out of here._

She lifted the panel out, set it on the floor.

"Mommy!"

He was here! He was safe!

And she heard footsteps and voices in the distance.

"Hey! There they are!" One soldier, far down the hallway. He was turning back to yell at the rest of his party—who were still out of sight around the curve of the corridor.

"Nicky, give me your backpack!"

He slipped out of it and tossed it to her.

"Get back; hide in the tunnels!"

Footsteps, heading for her. She didn't look—she just ran, back the way she'd just come from.

_Bend forward, pretend the backpack is heavy! Make them believe you're carrying Nicky!_

They were running too now, pounding after her.

"Sir, should we look in the—"

She pretended to stumble, started hobbling, as though she'd twisted an ankle.

_Look, your quarry is wounded, you can bring her down easily._

"Don't just stand there, damn it! Get them!"

She put on a burst of speed, still pretending to favor one foot.

_Come on, come on! Chase the meadowlark with the "crippled" wing and forget about the nest on the ground!_

She passed the Jeffries tube and spotted a turbolift further down the hall. Go up one floor—find another lift and come back down behind the search party . . .

She reached the lift, hit the signal plate. The doors opened.

And a squad of Cardassian soldiers came streaming out of the lift and grabbed her.

*

Garak ducked into a crew cabin and watched yet another search party go by. He had to get off this ship! If Enabran discovered him here . . .

Tain _must_ think he'd deliberately deserted him in the Gamma Quadrant.

He hadn't.

But Enabran had been in no condition to understand that. He must see being left behind there as the ultimate betrayal. And when Tain's attempts to bring him back for punishment and execution had failed, he'd decided to write him off and begin the obedience conditioning again from the very beginning, with a _new_ ZerKaiten child.

But now Tain had him too. He'd thought to steal a phaser before he beamed over here. Why hadn't he taken someone's combadge—he could just ask O'Brien for a beam-out now. But no: he'd just rushed in, like a fool. Now his best chance was to ambush one of the search parties: kill them all, take someone's wrist communicator and re-tune it to a Starfleet frequency.

He closed his eyes and shuddered. What would Tain do to him if he caught him? He didn't have to imagine what that man was capable of. He knew. He had _seen._ He had . . . helped.

*

The soldiers from the turbolift hustled her back down the corridor, retracing the route she'd just taken: back toward that open access hatch and Nicky.

Two of them held her by her upper arms, but she'd kept her grip on the backpack. Could she use it as a weapon? No, Nicky's little treasures weren't heavy enough to do any damage.

There were at least eight soldiers in this bunch. And eight more walking toward them: the ones who'd been chasing her. Sixteen to one. How was she going to fight them?

One of the men with her called out, "We got her, sir," to the officer walking toward them.

"Where is the boy?"

"I don't know, sir. She doesn't have him."

The officer turned to one of his men, jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at the open hatchway, just visible down the corridor. "Look in the—"

She dropped the backpack and let every muscle go limp, sagging almost to the deck. She could hear the other search party, still walking toward her. That officer must be only a few meters in front of her now. If she could just get loose and go for him—

There was a sudden whine, a sizzle in the air, a coruscating light. She jerked her head up and saw the officer pitch forward and land on the deck, a smoking hole in the back of his armor. Then another soldier was hit, and another, and another. Someone was running toward her, firing as he—

Elim!

Elim, carrying the hatch cover as a makeshift shield. Elim—in a full-out berserker charge against overwhelming odds.

The two holding her dropped her to go for their disruptors. She grabbed the legs of one of them, gave a hard sideways pull and took him down. But all the others were firing at Elim now. Disruptor beams lanced down the corridor; the very air smelled singed. It was too much, the odds against them too great.

A flurry of beams hit the "shield." Elim gave a scream: part pain, part maddened fury. He dropped the panel, then the phaser. He stumbled into the wall, one arm hanging useless at his side.

They were hurting her Elim! Still on her knees, she sprang at her other guard, grabbed his weapon arm and sank her teeth into his wrist. He gave a yelp and jerked away from her. The disruptor went flying—and landed out of reach. With a snarl he hauled her to her feet, slammed her into the wall and started punching her.

Something broke inside. A rib? If she could just pull her knife—

Light footsteps and a high-pitched yell.

" _Don't hurt my mother_!"

_No!_

Nicky, running down the corridor to them.

A soldier intercepted him, grabbed him by one arm, yanked him off his feet and dangled him in the air. "I've got him! I've got him!"

Like a pack of mindless hunting animals, the others turned away from both her and Elim, and headed for this new prey.

She drew her knife, started forward—and tripped over the backpack, went sprawling.

The backpack.

Nicky's little treasures!

She dropped the knife, grabbed the pack, opened it, dumped the contents on the deck.

_Yes!_

That combadge Odo's deputy gave him; which was _not_ a toy. She snatched it up and scrambled to her feet. A dozen soldiers between her and Nicky: impossible to fight them all. She tapped the badge to activate the call signal, drew back her arm.

Nicky was so far down the corridor; could she even throw that far?

" _Nicky_ ," she screamed, "your _badge_! Try to catch it!"

"Throw it to _me_!" Elim yelled. "I'm closer to him; throw it to me!"

The three of them formed a triangle; the distance between Nicky and herself _was_ the longest side.

She heard Odo's voice in her mind, her memory.

" _But I will never, ever,_ _trust him. And neither should you._ "

Garak's overwhelming survival instinct. Nicky's only chance.

She took a breath, drew back her arm—and threw the badge to Elim.

He jumped forward, caught it with his good hand and cried, "O'Brien! One to beam aboard!"

_No! Please no!_

The soldiers turned toward Elim. The one holding Nicky suddenly swore and dropped him.

Nicky landed on his feet.

And Elim yelled, " _Niccolo! For the point_!" He gave a flick of his wrist and sent the combadge skipping across the deck to his son.

Nicky ran to the badge, stopped it with one foot, froze in place—and disappeared in a familiar pattern of transport glitter.

That was a Starfleet transporter! Her baby was _safe_! _Safe_!

_*_

O'Brien was yelling, "I got him, I got him!"

But the figure forming on the platform was too small to be Garak.

Nicky! Nicky, back safe!

The child looked around and spotted him.

"Uncle Julian! My mother and father are fighting Cardassian soldiers! And there are shape-shifters! And a _very bad man_ named Enabran Tain!"

_Tain_? That was _Tain_?

O'Brien said, "Captain, we've got Nicky back—but not Devlin or Garak. And the boy says that's Enabran Tain out there! Tain's alive! And he has our people!"

Sisko's voice was cold with fury, "Then we will get them _back_."

*

The soldiers snapped out of their shock at Nicky's escape and headed for Elim. She was forgotten. She grabbed her knife, started forward—

And a sudden realization pulled her up short.

Nicky wasn't _safe_ at all. He was still in mortal danger—as long as Tain wanted him.

She took another look at the altercation down the hallway. She couldn't see Elim through the mob of soldiers, but one was already collapsed on the deck, either unconscious or dead. There was a muffled _snap_ of breaking bone, a high-pitched scream; it _didn't_ come from Elim. Even fighting one-handed and badly outnumbered, he was giving a good account of himself.

She turned away from the fight and ran for the lift. She had to trust Elim's survival skills to save him just one more time, without her help.

Because she might never again get this close to Enabran Tain.


	36. Chapter 36

"Hey! She's getting away! The woman! She's getting away!"

At the soldier's cry, the rest of Garak's assailants looked away from him.

Most of them were to his left, between him and Devlin. Only three stood to his right. He elbowed one man in the throat, kicked out and broke the second's kneecap, ducked around the third and ran for the open access hatch.

"Stop him! No, not _all_ of you! You, you and you: go after the woman! The _rest_ of you"—

He kept running, expecting to feel the scorching blast of a disruptor pistol at any second.

It didn't come.

Cardassian disruptors had no stun setting.

_"—reform your search party and_ capture _them."_

Enabran had wanted any boarding party taken alive, if possible. That order filled him with dread, but it was certainly helpful at the moment. Almost there, almost—

He flung himself into the maintenance tunnel and scrambled through it as quickly as he could. These tunnels were hard to navigate at any time, much less with his left arm nerve damaged.

He could hear his pursuers behind him now. But at least they had to follow single file: they couldn't gang up on him again. He found a side tunnel and dropped down an access ladder to a lower deck. When he was sure he'd lost them, he collapsed on the metal flooring grill and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.

He had to admit he was out of shape. Or . . . just a touch too old for this sort of thing. And _Tain_ wanted to get back into the profession? Tain, who was twenty years his senior?

As his breathing slowed and his heartbeat returned to normal, he contemplated what to do next. Devlin had taken advantage of the soldiers' inattention to escape. Now she was probably holed up near the hull, waiting to be beamed to the _Defiant_. In fact, O'Brien might have already retrieved her. But he couldn't just assume that; he had to go look for her. He sighed and started off again, heading back to the outer ring corridor.

And then he stopped, and sat down again, and really _thought_ about it.

Devlin might concentrate on evading capture while she had the child to protect. But once she was on her own . . .

_Devlin_ , running away. _Devlin,_ passively waiting for rescue. That just didn't sound right.

_Devlin doesn't run away._

But if she hadn't bolted from the fight in the corridor to escape and go to ground—where was she running _to_?

He remembered something. They were in Bashir's office. He was trying, oh-so-delicately, to persuade her to abort the pregnancy.

The look in those stone-gray eyes, the eerie calm in her voice.

" _If you try to hurt my baby, I will kill you._ "

Tain had just proven himself a danger to Niccolo.

Devlin wasn't running or hiding—she was stalking Enabran Tain.

*

She eased into the chair at the small desk, wincing at the pain in her side. That must be a cracked rib. But she was breathing normally: at least she hadn't punctured a lung. Yet.

She had to do this quickly; if a search party trapped her in this crew cabin, she wouldn't have much of a chance. If she could just make the request innocuous enough . . .

"Computer," she said in careful Kardasi, "display the janitorial schedule for . . . the next month."

A schematic of the ship's interior appeared. One area was outlined in yellow. " _To be cleaned today, Zauden Sixteenth: Deck Three, Section Two, Recreational Facilities_."

That area returned to its original dark green outline. Another was outlined in yellow. " _To be cleaned on Zauden Seventeenth_ "—

As the computer ran through the schedule, she memorized as much of the layout as she could. Oh, to be a Cardassian! But much of what she saw was already familiar.

She'd been there. That was the section with all the cross-corridors.

There too; there was an officers' lounge.

—" _Officer and Guest Quarters_."

"Pause."

The officers' quarters were in an isolated area near the stern, a cul-de-sac. Tain would have taken the best accommodations. His quarters had to be somewhere in that area.

Now all she had to do was find them, wait there for Tain, and kill him.

*

Sisko's voice came over the comm, "Mr. O'Brien, what progress are you making?"

"Still can't get a lock on her, sir. I'm picking up human life-signs, intermittently, but she's moving again. And heading for a heavily shielded area of that ship. If she goes in there I may lose her."

"Beam her off the instant you get a lock. There are three ships headed this way, with distorted warp signatures. It's a safe bet they aren't coming to help _us._ "

Bashir said, "Captain—you think Tain has _more_ ships?"

"I think Enabran Tain is still a player. I suspect he has been all along. Those ships will be here in thirty minutes, Doctor. We're leaving the minute the chief has Miss Devlin back aboard."

"What about Garak?"

"O'Brien may beam in anyone near her. If it's Garak, well and good. He did _choose_ to take his chances. And I won't endanger this ship for him alone."

*

She dropped to her knees, risked a quick peek around the corner and ducked back at once. Damn, there was a guard near one of the doors: a big brute with a disruptor rifle

Those must be Tain's quarters. Did a guard on duty mean he was _in_ them? She hoped so; the sooner she could ensure Nicky's safety, the sooner she could find Elim again.

That door would be locked and lock picking was not her strong suit. Could she use that guard?

Yes, she knew exactly what she had to do. She couldn't overpower him or knock him out—but she had to get to Enabran Tain.

She stood back up and switched the dagger to an ice pick grip: the hilt on her palm and the blade flat against her wrist. With her right hand pressed to her abdomen, left hand on top of it, the small knife was concealed. She took a deep breath, assumed a humble and frightened expression and stepped around the corner into the cul-de-sac.

The guard saw her, swung the rifle up.

She walked toward him. About ten meters between them. She'd rush him if she had to.

"You! Hold it right there!"

_Look at me, I'm not even Cardassian. How dangerous could I be?_

She kept walking; she had to get closer.

He took aim.

She said softly, in Standard, "Please, sir, I need to see Mr. Tain. I want to surrender."

He hesitated. He'd at least understood the word "Tain."

She kept going, frowned, pretended to concentrate—then she spoke in Kardasi. "Please, sir. I am intending to surrender to Mr. Tain's authority. I know he wishes me taken alive. Please do not act rashly or inadvertently cause me any harm."

"You stop _right there_. You understand _stop_?"

She stopped, now only an arm's length from him. "Yes, sir. I understand."

He lowered the rifle and his eyes refocused on some imaginary spot in the middle distance—that universal, instinctive prelude to addressing a public computer.

"Computer, intru—"

She dropped to her knees, grasped the dagger with both hands and plunged it down into his groin.

He gave a strangled cry and staggered back—then he swung the rifle at her head. She ducked, yanked out the dagger and stabbed him again—but the blood was still only flowing. Damn it, where was the artery!

He dropped the rifle, got his hands around her neck, pressed his thumbs into her windpipe. She slashed at him blindly—and garnet blood began spurting out in great gouts, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, splattering her white tunic and leggings.

Defense class. Worf. _"If you sever the jugular, carotids or femora your enemy will bleed to death within minutes or seconds."_

The guard's hands dropped to his sides. He sank to the floor, his face ashen, his eyes unfocused. She stood back up and tucked his rifle under her arm. Then she dragged him to the door, pulled him to his feet, grabbed his hair and tilted his face up to the sensor.

_Come on, come on! He's Tain's private guard, his retina print must open this door!_

The sensor would reject the print when blood stopped circulating through his eyes.

The door opened. She dropped the dying man on the threshold, stepped over him into the room, looked to the right—

A soldier! He slammed her into the door frame, put his pistol to her head. Someone yanked the rifle away from her, someone else twisted her knife hand—she dropped the dagger.

Enabran Tain was across the room: sitting in an armchair, calmly watching.

He got up and walked over to look down at the guard. "Oh, very _good_ , my dear. Absolutely _no_ style—but fast, direct and effective."

An expression of respect crossed his face, briefly. "When they told me you'd escaped from _two squads_ of Cardassia's Finest . . . Well, I simply _had_ to see for myself." He pointed to his right.

She cut her eyes that way, saw a large security screen, showing the hallway outside. She looked back at Tain.

"Really, my dear—you are _much_ more dangerous than you appear. It makes me wish your offer to join me was sincere."

_I don't want to join you_. _I want to kill you. And I will._

"But you've taken my . . . new protégé. I'm afraid I _will_ have to punish you for that."

He glanced at the corpse.

"Tain to Operations: Beam every _living_ person in this chamber to Transporter Room One."

*

Garak took a breath, stepped around the corner into the cul-de-sac. Down the corridor, an open door—with a body laying across the threshold, holding it open.

He walked cautiously toward the door. Was this a trap? It didn't matter; he had to find out what had happened here. He had to find his . . . his Devlin.

He reached the door. There was no doubt that the man was dead: the hallway looked like a slaughterhouse. He stepped over the corpse, looked swiftly left and right. Nothing happened. The room was empty.

He looked down; there on the deck was a small, beautifully crafted, Andorian dagger. He picked it up, wiped the bloody blade on the dead man's shirt.

_Very good, my dear. A much more sensible use for this little jewel._

Then it hit him. Devlin would be disarmed _only_ by force.

Tain had her.

*

Every disruptor pistol in the room was pointed at her. How could she get off this transporter pad and grab one of them?

She needed to kill Enabran Tain.

Tain was across the room, speaking to the transporter tech in a low voice. Was that the same one: the shape-shifter? She didn't think so.

Tain walked over to her. "Well, my dear, it looks like your friends on the _Defiant_ are going to hound me until they get you back. So I will _send_ you back."

He smiled, "Have you ever seen a transporter accident? I'm afraid they're rather messy. Victims materialize as a mass of body parts: limbs detached, viscera exposed. Sometimes they just stare at themselves as they die; sometimes they manage to scream. It's really quite dramatic."

_You formed my Elim in your twisted image, turned him into a monster. And he knows he's a monster: that knowledge tortures him. I am going to kill you._

"Won't that make a nice surprise for your friends? Oh, _I_ think so."

_I will find a way out of this; I always do._

_And then I'll kill you._

The comm came on. "Mr. Tain?"

"What?" he snapped.

"We have the intruder, sir. He says his name is Garak."

_No!_

For one fleeting second—Enabran Tain looked absolutely dumbfounded.

"He just walked up to us and surrendered. He says he wants to make a deal with you."

"Oh, _does_ he?"

*

The sight of her Elim, pleading, broke her heart.

"Just let her _go_ , Tain. Send her to the _Defiant—_ alive, safe—and I'll come back to you, voluntarily. _Whatever_ you're up to— _I can help_. Please, Enabran, forgive me, take me back."

Then he fell silent and fixed Tain with that steady, unblinking stare.

Tain was smiling: a tight, nasty, little smile. "You betrayed your mother, you betrayed me; you will betray _anyone_ who trusts you. _And you have run out of chances_! Your time is up. You will watch your human mistress die—and then you will follow her."

Elim had gone deathly pale. He believed Tain; she could see it in his eyes. And so, finally, she believed Tain. Her time was up too. It was over.

"Enabran—"

He took a deep breath.

" _My sire,_ grant me one last mercy—let me die with my mate."

_It can't be true!_

But the resemblance was _there_ , had she refused to see it?

Enabran Tain as a dashing young driouu. Lord and Lady Garak, so thrilled to gain the social status of a driouu child. The sweet, gentle, little boy who "everyone adored."

_Your own son, Tain! You did those horrible things to your own son!_

She started to cry.

"So be it," Tain snapped. "Let him go to her."

Elim walked to the platform, stepped up right beside her and took her hand.

Tain looked back at the transporter operator.

Elim's face was frozen into an impassive mask, but she could feel him trembling.

_Nicky_ , _Mommy is so sorry she's leaving you. Julian, protect my baby._

Elim looked at her, took a shaky breath.

" _Devlin,_ I will never— I will _try_ to never lie to you."

It was enough. It was more than enough: it was honest.

She saw that beautiful, life-wounded face through her tears and she knew what she had to tell him. She finally _knew_. But with what words? _What words_?

Old words.

"Where _you_ go, _I_ go and _your_ people are _my_ people."

Numbness. Insect itch. Sparkle. Disorientation.

*

Consciousness. Fading swirls . . .

And O'Brien's voice. O'Brien's beautiful, beautiful voice!

"I got them, sir! I got them! They're all right!"

They were on the _Defiant_ : alive and whole!

Nicky ran across the chamber, hurled himself at her and held on for dear life.

"Mommy!"

Julian was here too. He started to say something to Elim—then he looked at her. "My God, Devlin! How can you still be _standing_! Wait . . . _is_ that _your_ blood?"

Sisko's voice, heard over the comm, "Reese, get us out of here!"

Elim was still pale, he seemed to be in shock. That had been too close, _much_ too close.

Sisko again, " _Mr. Garak,_ I want you and Miss Devlin up here _now_! And you will damn well tell me what is going on!"

"I assure you, Captain, Miss . . ."

He turned to look at her—stunned realization on his face. He must have seen the affirmation in her eyes, because he drew himself up with great dignity and started over.

"I assure you, Captain— _my wife_ and I would be happy to tell you all about it."

*

The impromptu reception/farewell party had a very "DS9" ambiance. Leeta brought a cake. Morn cried in his champagne. Odo warned her not to go. Nicky happily held court in one corner of the cargo bay—enthralling the Vilix'pran quads with tales of his adventures. And Quark showed up just to yell at her about selling Bajorcraft to his mother.

That last was quite unfair: she'd had only two days to find a buyer.

Elim and she responded to all questions about the actual "wedding" with the perfectly truthful statement that they'd said their vows "in front of" an _important_ Cardassian official.

Dax did not come to the party. O'Brien was pulling extra duty for disobeying Sisko.

Julian came with Margo; they seemed very happy together.

*

They were in her . . . in _their_ quarters, finishing the last bit of packing, when Julian came to say goodbye.

He was the same man he had always been: gentle and brave, principled and steadfast. In the best meaning of the word, a gentleman. But there was also something new, some ineffable sadness in his eyes.

_Oh, Julian, did you finally realize you're in love with him? Well, you had your chance—and you blew it._

It wasn't a very nice thing to think. But then—as she'd told Elim the day she met him—she was not a nice person.

Julian said goodbye to Nicky, promised to visit him on Arawath.

"Nicky and I should go on board now and look for a viewport; he wants to watch the jump to warp." She gave Bashir a kiss on the cheek, "I will miss you, Julian. You've been a good friend."

And she left Elim and Julian alone, to say their farewells.

*

She had one last look at the station, receding in the distance as Damar took them out. Then there was a subtle change in the thrum of the engine and the scene outside the viewport changed to the star-blur of warp travel.

Lady Garak looked down at her son, took her husband's hand, and smiled.

She still couldn't believe Elim had _actually said_ , "Let me die with my mate!"

How deliciously melodramatic.

Had it been sincere? Or just a desperate gamble that O'Brien would lock on to her at the last second and beam him out with her? She wondered if Elim himself knew the truth of it.

Oh well, no matter; she seemed to be comfortable with ambiguity. Which, come to think of it, was probably the surest sign of all that they belonged together.

But right now, Devlin had other things to think about. In a few hours they would arrive at the Arawath Colony and begin the work of building a new Cardassian royal court. There would be dangers and difficulties for the House of ZerKaiten. And . . . opportunities.

And then—of course—she still needed to kill Enabran Tain.

############


End file.
